Always Darkest Before Dawn
by ScarlettWatson
Summary: Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade are kidnapped together. During their incarceration, Greg slowly becomes aware that there is something unusual about Mycroft. More than just the obvious, that is.
1. Chapter 1

This story was written for my lovely AO3 Fundraiser Auction Winner, Barawen. Thank you for such a fun prompt, and for being patient with me when this fic grew to be much larger than I expected. I hope you like it!

Also, this is part two of the "Dawn" series, set prior to the story "At Dawn They Sleep" in the timeline. You don't need to have read that one to enjoy this, but some of the world-building in that story will help this one make more sense.

I have to give a million thanks to my friend, beta reader and brit-picker extraordinaire, DancingGrimm! Without her support and help and feedback, this story would be shorter, clunkier, and way less interesting. I couldn't have done it without you, my dear!

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The first time it had been frightening. The second time it had been intimidating. The third, fourth, and fifth times it had been unsettling. But at this point, it was getting ridiculous.

Unable to stop himself, Greg Lestrade laughed out loud.

"Am I amusing you, Detective Inspector?" Mycroft Holmes asked in an acerbic tone as he approached the place where Greg was standing, directly in front of the unmarked but elegant black car that had delivered him.

"No, it's just… we have to stop meeting like this." He chuckled again and gestured around them at the dusty and disused warehouse in which they stood. Two tall padded chairs, looking as if they had been pulled out of a hotel lobby somewhere, had been incongruously placed in the center of the cavernous space, their carved wooden legs casting strange angular shadows now in the harsh glow of the car's headlights.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "I'm sorry, are our little chats inconveniencing you?"

"A bit, yeah," Greg answered with a grin, enjoying the way that Mycroft's face pinched up even more at the response. "For example, right now I'm absolutely starving. Maybe next time we could meet at a café or something? I could murder a bacon butty."

Mycroft blinked at him for a moment, and then a tiny smile snuck onto his face. "I see." He looked around the vast empty warehouse and then turned back to face Greg, his smile just a bit wider. "I suppose I might be able to provide some refreshments for our next meeting, then, if that's what it takes to make you comfortable."

"Yeah? Sounds good." Greg grinned. He loved those moments when the tightly controlled man seemed to unwind a little bit, letting a hint of genuine emotion slip through his façade. "But since we're already here, I guess we should go ahead and sit."

Mycroft bowed slightly from the waist and extended a hand toward the chairs. Greg inclined his head in return and moved toward the seats, grin still fixed on his face.

With a soft grunt Greg collapsed into the seat facing toward the car, the lights glaring in his eyes. He knew from experience that Mycroft preferred to sit with his back to the light and his face in shadow. Maintaining the mysterious air he worked so hard to cultivate, no doubt. Greg had got pretty good at reading the cues in Mycroft's body language at this point, though, so the darkness did not provide as much concealment as Mycroft might believe.

Mycroft folded himself into the other seat with a slow and easy grace that Greg admired, so different from his own artless and sloppy motions. He sat primly, back straight and knees together, holding his umbrella across his lap with both hands, while Greg sprawled out and settled back to get comfortable.

"How do you even get chairs like this here?" Greg started before Mycroft could open his mouth. "I mean, they're not collapsible, are they? Do you have someone haul out two heavy cushy chairs just before you send the car, or are they always around in case of a clandestine meeting?"

"Sorry, trade secret," Mycroft answered, completely deadpan. Greg chuckled again, pleased that Mycroft was permitting the teasing. Despite the rocky start to their relationship, revolving as it did around Sherlock's incarceration after appearing a crime scene spouting details about a murder, these days Greg found the man to be pleasant company.

"Ah well, to business then."

"Yes. How is my dear brother these days?"

Greg had just opened his mouth to respond when a shrieking alarm suddenly filled the room, almost deafening in its intensity. He clapped his hands to his ears and jumped out of his chair, as across from him Mycroft stood and spun in place, his eyes sweeping the vast dark space around them.

He turned back to Greg and said something, but Greg could not hear him over the alarm, which was loud enough to make his eyes water even with his ears plugged. Mycroft wore an expression of confusion, possibly even touched with fear, and the sight of that emotion in Mycroft Holmes – of all people – caused a wave of something suspiciously like terror to wash through Greg, weakening his knees.

He turned away, looking around the apparently empty space, but his eyes could not penetrate the dusty gloom of the far reaches of the room. When he turned back around, seconds later, Mycroft was gone, the space between Greg and the car stretching out bright and empty but for the chair.

Shocked, Greg jerked backwards and tripped over the chair behind him, dropping his hands from his ears and nearly falling to the ground before he was able to regain his balance. The ear-splitting shriek of the alarm pounded into his head, but for the moment he could ignore it as he spun on his heel and searched the room again, looking for Mycroft this time. How could the man have… _vanished_ like that?

A flicker of movement caught his eye and he turned again, facing one side of the huge warehouse. It was too dark to make out any details and he could hear nothing but the pounding fury of the alarm, but after a short moment of fixed staring he was rewarded with another flash of movement. He took two steps toward the motion before he felt it, a sharp stinging sensation in his neck.

He cried out, but the shrieking alarm drowned out his yell and he could not even hear himself. His hand jumped up and he found a small metal pellet attached to a needle which was lodged in the side of his neck. He had time to take one more aimless step, tugging futilely at the dart, before the blackness closed in, crowding around the edges of his vision and then swarming forward to engulf it entirely.

The last thing he felt was a sharp sting as his face slapped smartly against the dirty concrete floor.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Greg woke slowly, his head crowded with confused disjointed images and foggy recollections. His mouth was dry, his throat sore, his entire face heavy and throbbing with pain. His impulse was to groan, roll over and rub his hands down his face, maybe check to see if his nose was broken, but something stopped him. He could not remember how he came to be in this state, but instinct was screaming at him to freeze, think, attempt to ascertain the situation before demonstrating that he was awake to anyone who might be watching.

Greg slowed his breathing, allowing the air to flow through his mouth because his nose was too clogged to be any help. The air tasted stale, tasted of stone and soil and damp, like the air in an old disused basement.

Listening intently, Greg could hear the gentle sound of water trickling, a soft collection of splashes and plinking noises. It sounded like a fountain. Nothing else. Greg continued to lie still, listening hard, straining all of his senses, but could not detect the sound of anyone else in the room. After a long period of time, the silence punctuated only by the quiet splash of water, he decided to risk opening his eyes.

Cracking one eye just a tiny slit, he could see nothing but an unmarked expanse of grey just in front of his face. He risked opening the other eye, but the view remained unchanged. Evidently he was facing a wall.

Finally, still hearing nothing but the soothing sound of running water, Greg decided it was time to move. He flexed his shoulders first, bringing his hands up to his face. He was surprised to find that his hands were unbound, and then confused that he would expect such a thing.

Greg dragged himself up into a sitting position, unable to stifle a groan at the sudden stab of pain through his head and face, and rotated until his back was to the wall. He raised his eyes to look around the room, and immediately his attention focused in on the figure across from him.

Bound in startlingly heavy chains and shackled to the wall by both wrists slumped the battered, unconscious form of Mycroft Holmes.

Greg's immediate impulse was to leap across the space and check on Mycroft, but he held himself back, waiting instead to see if their captors reacted to his wakefulness. He kept his eyes on Mycroft, though, and felt relief when he saw the shallow rise and fall of the man's chest.

As he waited, he took a moment to examine the room in which they were apparently confined. The space was not large, long but fairly narrow, roughly oval in shape. The walls appeared to be made of raw stone, barely worked at all, rough and jagged like those of a cave, and the floor was level hard-packed dirt, dotted here and there with small stones. A narrow stream ran the length of the room near to the far wall, and from where he sat Greg could see that the small opening through which the stream exited the room was blocked with thick metal bars. The only source of illumination was a single bulb, naked and glaring, which jutted straight out from one rough wall.

Greg brought his fingers up and gingerly prodded his own face. His nose was swollen and very tender, and dried blood crusted his upper lip and chin. Probably broken, then. His cheek felt bruised, and he suddenly remembered the stinging feeling in his face as he collapsed in the warehouse…

The warehouse! Meeting with Mycroft, that horrible alarm, the awful sensation of a dart in his neck, and then… nothing until he woke up here. Wherever this was. Jesus.

After a few minutes, during which Greg sat quietly and struggled to control his rising panic, he decided that either he was not being observed or his captors were waiting to see what he would do. Either way, it was time to check on Mycroft.

Greg stood gingerly, using the rough wall to support himself and wincing against the pain in his head. The ceiling was quite high, arching above him and gnarled with twisted broken ridges of stone, strongly reinforcing the cave-like impression of the room. Grunting with the effort, Greg staggered the few steps along the wall to the place where Mycroft was shackled.

Mycroft was sitting on the dirt floor, his back pressed against the wall, his wrists clad in thick bands of a dingy brown-grey metal and connected to the wall by massive chains of the same material. His seated position indicated that he was likely conscious at one point, but now he was slumped forward, his head hanging down so that Greg could not clearly see his face. The chains were not long enough to let his hands reach the ground, so instead they hung at a strange, uncomfortable angle at his sides.

Greg reached out a gentle hand and rested it on Mycroft's shoulder. "Mycroft, hey," he said quietly, not sure how to go about waking the man. When there was no reply, he tried again, shaking Mycroft softly and calling his name.

This time, Mycroft stirred, rolling his head with a groan. Greg shook him again, and Mycroft raised his head, blinking wearily.

When Greg caught sight of his face, he gasped. Mycroft looked terrible. His face was a mess of bruises, stark and vivid against his incredibly pale skin, and one eye was nearly swollen shut. Beneath the marks, his face was gaunt, his skin stretched tight across his bones. Greg caught himself wondering if he had perhaps been unconscious longer than he thought, for Mycroft to look so withered so quickly.

After a moment, Mycroft seemed to regain some awareness of his surroundings. His eyes cleared, and then locked on Greg's face. He opened his own mouth to speak, but all that came out was a harsh hacking sound that made Greg wince.

"Wait, hang on. I'll get you some water." Greg turned to the stream that ran through their prison and examined it briefly. It looked clear and smelled alright, and he did not really possess any other means to make sure it was safe. He shrugged to himself and scooped up a handful, drinking quickly. Tasted fine too. He cupped his hands and gathered up another handful of water, moving carefully back to Mycroft. Even so, he had nearly spilled half of it when he reached the other man.

Gently, Greg placed the edge of his hand at Mycroft's mouth and tipped the water toward him. Mycroft opened his mouth and drank the meager offering greedily, drops spilling past the corners of his mouth to run down his chin. As soon as his hands were empty, Greg repeated the act, bringing Mycroft another small handful of water. When he moved to do it a third time, though, Mycroft stopped him.

"Wait… help me," he rasped. "My wrists…" he trailed off and let his eyes fall closed, seemingly exhausted by the effort of talking.

Greg looked closely at the wrist nearest him, but it appeared to be fine. He could not see any visible bruising. There was a weird smell, though, this close. Almost like… cooking meat.

Mycroft shook his arm, and the manacle shifted slightly, giving Greg a glimpse of raw red flesh. With a startled cry, he grabbed Mycroft's arm and slid the cuff further, revealing severe burns concealed beneath the band of metal.

"Mycroft, what the hell?" Greg gently released the arm he was holding and moved to check the other, which was as severely damaged as its counterpart.

"Wrap them… cloth…" Mycroft gasped out before falling silent and limp again. Greg nodded and stepped back, looking around. Mycroft was still wearing his usual three piece suit, the jacket sleeves pushed up to make room for his shackles. For a moment, Greg considered just sliding the sleeves under the cuffs, but decided against it. He needed something that would not move every time Mycroft shifted his arms.

Immediately, Greg pulled his own shirt off, and then removed the vest he was wearing beneath it. He dropped his shirt, ignoring the deep chill of the room, and took the vest in both hands. Very quickly, he managed to rip the thin material into strips.

Working carefully, Greg pushed the soft cotton strips under the thick bands of metal encircling Mycroft's burned wrists, gritting his teeth against the sharp gasps his actions elicited. Finally, after an interminable time, he finished. The cloth covered and protected the burned flesh, and also held the heavy metal bands up off of the damaged skin. It was the best Greg could do for Mycroft with his limited resources.

When he was done, Mycroft slouched back against the wall, breathing hard. Greg watched him for a moment, not sure what to do.

"More water?" he asked finally, unable to think of anything else.

"Just… rest," Mycroft responded without opening his eyes. Greg nodded, even though Mycroft could not see him.

Greg pulled his shirt back on, shivering slightly in the chill of the room. Then, unable to think of anything to do, he stood staring at Mycroft's limp figure. The man looked smaller like this, hurt and bound, but even unconscious he still maintained some of that impressive aura of power that he wore like a second skin. Greg had always respected Mycroft, even back when they used to butt heads over Sherlock's unacceptable behavior at crime scenes and the appropriate ways to respond to it. Lately, he had to admit, he enjoyed the man's company, infrequent and unpredictable as it was, and even found himself looking forward to those moments when an expensive black car would slide up beside him as he walked and a door would open in silent invitation.

Looking at Mycroft now, Greg was suddenly filled with the unexpected desire to offer some kind of comfort, like maybe a hug. If he thought for a moment that the man would accept, he might have tried. However, he had no doubt that such physical contact would be as unwelcome as an attack to someone like the elder Holmes brother, so he kept his hands to himself.

Feeling restless and anxious, Greg tuned away from Mycroft and looked around the room once more. Set in the wall at the opposite end of the room, right near where he first woke, he could now see a thick heavy metal door, apparently made of the same ugly brown-grey metal that was locked around Mycroft's wrists. The little stream entered the room through another heavily barred opening just beside it. And that, it seemed, was that. Nothing else.

Greg got himself another drink from the stream, but forced himself to stop after one scoop. He still did not know whether the water might be contaminated with something, so he thought it was best to wait a while to see what happened before drinking much more. He did, however, dunk what was left of his vest in the stream and use it to wash his face. The cool touch of the water on his bruised skin was an instant relief.

Frightened and nervous, worried about Mycroft and flushed with unused adrenaline, Greg could not stand still. He moved carefully around the perimeter of the small room to the door and ran his hands across it. The metal was very cold and felt rough beneath his hands. The door seemed to be one huge solid piece of metal, with no interruptions in its smooth surface, without even a knob or a latch. It fit perfectly flush in the stone wall, not even space enough for a piece of paper between the edge of the metal and the beginning of the stone. The half-hearted and rudimentary effort involved in shaping the room itself was not in evidence here; someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure that this door was impenetrable.

Greg shivered.

He contemplated the door for a few minutes, his mind skating between what little he could recall from the warehouse, possible means of escape, and fears about what might happen to them here in this place. He could not stay focused on a single idea for longer than a few seconds, though, and standing still quickly became intolerable. So instead he paced.

Their cell was just over six strides in length and about half as wide, Greg discovered. He fell into a pattern of steps, unconsciously counting them as he had once done as a child, trying to sooth himself after fights with his brother. One, two, three, four, five, six steps in each direction. The sameness, the unchanging rhythm calmed him, and he found himself growing less frantic as he walked and walked.

He was nearing the door when he thought he heard Mycroft make a soft noise behind him. As he turned back to face Mycroft, his hand dropped to his side and his knuckles bumped against something in his pocket. Surprised, he reached in and pulled out his mobile. A quick pat revealed that his keys were still there as well, though his wallet was missing.

He was still staring at the phone in his hand, baffled, when Mycroft spoke again.

"Yes, they left me mine as well," he said, and Greg's head jerked up.

"Mycroft, god! How are you feeling?" Greg rushed across the small space and knelt beside Mycroft, examining him closely although he had no idea what he was hoping to see. Mycroft still looked bruised and battered and ill.

"Better, thank you Detective Inspector. I cannot tell you what a relief it is, having my wrists wrapped."

"It's no problem." Greg paused, and then gave a little grin. "Don't you think you could call me Greg? I feel like being kidnapped together is really more of a 'first names' situation."

Mycroft responded with an exhausted but genuine smile. "Certainly, Gregory."

Greg felt himself flush slightly as Mycroft pronounced his given name for the first time. To cover it, he cleared his throat. "Those were some nasty burns. How did you even get those?"

Mycroft looked at him sharply, and Greg felt himself come under the intense scrutiny of a Holmes. Fortunately, he was used to it and withstood the examination stolidly. He had no idea what Mycroft was trying to find, though. Finally, after a short time, Mycroft's eyes closed and his head rested back against the wall behind him.

"I don't know. Something to do with the capture, I suppose."

"Strange that they're exactly in the same place that as the cuffs."

"Yes." Mycroft kept his eyes shut and appeared to be resting. Greg returned his attention to his mobile.

"No signal here."

"I know. I expect that we're fairly deep underground. That's probably why they didn't bother taking our phones."

Greg considered this. "That doesn't sound like a very good sign. I mean, if we're ever expected to leave this room, I would think they would have taken them just to be safe."

"Yes." Mycroft did not move.

"Jesus." Greg twisted to the side and sat back against the rough stone wall beside Mycroft, letting his head collapse backward hard enough to send a throb of pain through his swollen face. He winced and pressed his fingertips against his cheekbones. He could feel the tension and fear rising up in his chest again, but he fought it back down. No reason to exhaust himself when there was nothing he could do. He just needed to keep reminding himself of that.

"So, do you know what this is about then?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The kidnapping. This is a real kidnapping, right? Not like your kind, with posh cars and politely worded questions. We're in a… a damned _dungeon_, you're chained to the wall, both of us all bashed up. You must have some idea why they wanted to kidnap you."

"How do you know they were not after you?"

Greg barked out a surprised laugh. "Right, that's a possibility I haven't considered. Maybe they wanted to kidnap a DI rather than a 'minor' government official, just happened to decide to take me when we were meeting, and just happened to have the force necessary to overcome your ridiculous level of security. Come on, Mycroft. Why?"

"I'm afraid I don't know, Gregory. There are several groups who may believe they can benefit from detaining me in this way, though for the most part they are mistaken. I barely saw anything of our captors before they rendered me unconscious, and certainly not enough to reach any conclusions. Until they decide to come and talk to us, you know just as much as I."

"Well, we both know that's not true." Greg almost thought he could feel Mycroft's smile, though he said nothing.

Several minutes of silence passed, both men sitting up against the wall. Greg could not speak for Mycroft, but his own mind was still racing, working to find an explanation, an angle, some kind of inkling of a plan to improve their position. But it was no use. He just did not have enough knowledge of the situation, and virtually no resources.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "If it would not be too much trouble, Gregory, I would very much like another drink of water."

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure!" Greg jumped up and stepped over to the stream again. He cupped his hands and scooped as much water as he could hold, which was not very much, and then turned and carefully walked the few steps back to where Mycroft was chained. Despite his care, by the time he returned much of the water had trickled out from between his fingers. Greg gently placed his hands against Mycroft's lips and tipped the remaining water into his mouth, studiously keeping his eyes turned away from where Mycroft's lips met his skin, fighting down an inexplicable blush.

Once he had slurped all of the water from Greg's hands, Mycroft let his head fall backwards against the rough wall behind him and let out a long breath. Greg almost did the same, but stopped himself. Instead he sat back on his heels and rubbed one wet hand across the back of his neck.

"Would you like some more?" Greg asked as Mycroft's eyes started to fall shut again.

"In a moment, perhaps." Mycroft stayed where he was, resting against the wall, his head tipped up toward the ceiling and eyes closed. The bruises on his face stood out vividly in the glare of the light, and his cheeks were hollow enough to give Greg the impression that he had not eaten in weeks. But despite this, there was something compelling about Mycroft's face, something strange but attractive. And although he had only just recently admitted it to himself, Greg had always enjoyed looking at him.

"So," Greg said, and then stopped. He had no idea what else to say, but the quiet and the soft splashing of the little stream were starting to get to him. He wanted to break it, interrupt the inappropriately soothing sounds with loud indications of life and action. He wanted to do something, _anything, _other than just sit here helplessly and wait.

Mycroft did not reply to his sad attempt to start a conversation, but Greg saw that he had opened his eyes. Greg swallowed and tried again.

"Someone must have noticed… I mean, you probably have whole teams of people responsible for finding you if something like this happens, right?"

Mycroft smiled briefly. "Not teams, no. But yes, despite my relatively minor position in the government my movements are usually tracked. It is likely that there are people seeking us in order to come to our rescue right now."

"Your rescue, you mean. But if you can get them to take me along too, that would be great."

"Don't you think your colleagues at the Met will be looking for you as well?"

Greg felt the bitter smile that crept onto his face, but there was nothing he could do about it. "I doubt they've noticed I'm missing yet. I was off today, so no one would be expecting me. And since my divorce I haven't exactly had anyone waiting for me at home, have I?"

"Oh. I… may I offer my condolences?" Mycroft looked uncomfortable, and Greg mentally kicked himself for letting his self-pity leak out into his words.

"Hey, no, I'm sorry. It's fine. In all honesty, I have to imagine your people will be better at finding kidnapping victims than mine, unless they decide to call your brother for help. And I really can't imagine Donovan doing that."

Mycroft let a soft puff of air escape, a sound that was nearly but not quite a laugh. "No, nor Benjamin."

"Benjamin?"

"My personal assistant. They have not got along since Sherlock informed the rest of my office that Benjamin was having an affair with a married woman. But he is quite competent and will be directing any rescue efforts that are underway."

"Right." Greg sat back, able to relax slightly. He felt just a bit better at the idea that some of the nameless, faceless shadow people who were always hovering menacingly behind Mycroft might be out there somewhere right now, searching for them. His helplessness still chafed, but not quite as much. "So, more water?"

"Not right now I think. Thank you Gregory." Mycroft paused, dropping his eyes and clearing his throat in a way that Greg was coming to recognize.

"Do you need something else?"

"I was wondering whether you might provide me with the cloth that you used to wash your face. I think I would find that very refreshing just now."

"Oh, sure. Of course." Greg snagged the remains of his vest from where he had draped it over an outcropping that protruded from one wall of their stone cell and dipped it back in the stream before handing the damp cloth to Mycroft. Mycroft scrubbed the fabric over his face, groaning aloud at the touch of the cool water on his abused skin. The sound sent a shiver down Greg's spine.

Mycroft lowered the wet cloth and looked up at Greg, who was standing beside him. His eyelashes were dark and clumped together from the water, making his eyes look luminous and huge in his gaunt face. "Thank you Gregory, that is much –" and right at that moment the light went out, plunging the room into the blackest darkness Greg had ever experienced.

There was a brief pause, silent but for the gentle gurgle of the stream, and then Mycroft continued, "– better."

Greg did not respond. His eyes darted frantically around, but he could not see a thing, could detect absolutely no light whatsoever. He blinked hard and then opened his eyes again, but there was no change to the absolute blackness that surrounded him. It was uncanny, the pure and endless quality of this darkness, like nothing he had ever experienced before. Greg could feel his heart pounding in his chest as the black closed in and started to suffocate him.

Without intending to, Greg found himself holding his breath and listening intently, trying to use his ears to make up for the lack of sight. He could hear the splashing of the inexplicable little stream that ran through their prison, the nearly inaudible sound of Mycroft breathing and shifting, the echo in his own head as he ground his teeth. Nothing else. He leaned forward, rotating his head slowly like a satellite dish, straining to pick up any other sounds, but nothing came.

After a period of time that may have been thirty seconds or ten minutes, for all Greg could tell, Mycroft again broke the silence.

"Well fuck."

The profanity was so unexpected and startling coming from Mycroft that it jolted Greg out of the near trance of strained perception into which he had fallen. He could still see absolutely nothing, could hear nothing apart from the tinkle of water and the tiny sounds of two people in an enclosed space, but he could feel his heart rate slowing to a less panicked speed as he straightened up and drew in several deep breaths.

Slowly, with his arms outstretched, Greg took a fumbling step in the direction that he thought the wall must be, based on his own recollections and the sound of Mycroft's voice. He had been standing a few short steps from the wall when the lights went out, so he should reach it quickly.

He stepped forward, bracing himself to stub his fingers on the rough stone wall, and was surprised when his questing hands found nothing. Carefully, he shuffled forward another step, and then another, before he felt cold stone under his hands. He moved up against it and then gradually slid down to sit on the floor.

"What's wrong?" he asked, once he was sitting. He was answered by a low snort which reminded him sharply of Sherlock, and for a moment he could clearly picture the detective, the image painted on the blackness before his eyes, looking at him with that condescending scowl and a single arched eyebrow; could imagine that deep rumble of a voice saying in his posh accent 'Oh nothing, Lestrade. This is exactly how Mycroft was hoping his day would go. How could anything possibly be wrong?'

Greg closed his eyes, trying with limited success to wipe the picture of Sherlock from his mind, and then turned his head toward the source of the snort.

"I meant, 'what else'."

Only silence greeted this question. The silence stretched on and on, until Greg started to feel uncomfortable, started to worry that maybe Mycroft had fallen asleep or passed out from pain or possibly just disappeared into the darkness while Greg could not see him. He shifted uncomfortably and had just opened his mouth to speak when Mycroft finally answered.

"I can't… I can't tell what's going on," Mycroft said in a low, frightened voice. The sound of it, so unlike his usual powerful, confident speech, drove an icy stab of fear into the pit of Greg's stomach. "I can't tell, my senses are all confused. The stream is messing it all up, nothing but echoes and distortions. And this goddamn bloody silver!" By the end Mycroft's voice had risen to a shout, angry and desperate, and the last comment was accompanied by a loud clinking sound as Mycroft shook his manacles.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Greg answered, hoping he sounded soothing, and not as badly shaken as he felt. He scooted closer to where Mycroft was sitting, kept scooting until he felt his shoulder collide with Mycroft's bony arm. Beside him, Mycroft froze at the touch, but Greg stayed where he was and after a moment Mycroft seemed to relax, leaning just slightly into him for a moment. "I can't see or hear anything either, but it's okay, we'll be okay." An idea suddenly occurred to him, so blindingly obvious that he kicked himself for not having thought of it sooner. "Hang on, I thought of something."

Greg groped at his trousers, felt the solid reassuring weight of his mobile phone. He worked it out of the pocket and flipped it open, and the dim blue light of the display filled their stone cell, sudden and startlingly bright after their time in absolute darkness.

"Oh," Mycroft breathed beside him, the sound caught somewhere between a word and an exhalation. Greg turned to look at him, and felt his heart give a strange lurch in his chest.

Mycroft's face hovered just inches from his own. The bluish light from the phone reflected off of his pale skin, painting him the color of a corpse, and the position of the light source cast the planes of his face into sharp relief, making him look nearly as gaunt and angular as Sherlock. The marks of violence on his face stood out obscenely, stark and vivid brown in contrast to his icicle skin. His eyes were open wide, downcast as he looked at the phone in Greg's hand, and they glittered strangely in the artificial light. His expression was one of almost childlike shock, the most honest expression Greg had ever seen him wear. He looked like a work of art, a beautiful, terrible painting, a horror movie victim frozen in the moment before the final scene.

Slowly, almost painfully, Mycroft's eyes rose to meet Greg's, and when they did Greg actually felt his lungs go still as his breath stopped in his chest. Mycroft's eyes were colorless pools of black, a pure and horrible darkness exactly as deep and endless and consuming as the darkness that had surrounded them before Greg thought to make a light. And as Greg looked, he could feel the blackness reach out to swallow him, drawing his mind out and down into the pit.

A feeling of warmth and comfort started to seep into him, the knowledge that this was fine, this was okay, everything would be okay. He found himself leaning forward and to the side, moving in as if to give Mycroft a kiss. And that was okay too, was more than okay, he decided. He would be happy to kiss Mycroft, had actually been thinking about it a bit, and this seemed like a good time. Right now, when everything was so good. But then, as he got closer in, he unintentionally arched his neck to the side, twisting his head. Well then, maybe he was going to rest his head on Mycroft's shoulder instead, give him a bit of a hug. That would be fine too.

He felt Mycroft's breath puff softly against his neck, the cool moisture making him shiver, and his eyes fluttered closed.

Then there was a sudden, disorienting jolt, and Greg's eyes flew open as he reeled backward, knocking his sore head sharply against the stone wall behind where he sat. The feeling of wellbeing fled, leaving him cold and frightened in a way that he had not been before. Unable to stop himself, he immediately looked at Mycroft, feeling a thrill of fear and something darker shoot down his spine.

"Gregory, are you alright?" Mycroft asked as Greg turned to him. He was looking back at Greg with his brow furrowed, his eyes full of concern. His perfectly normal, somewhat narrow blue eyes. "What happened? It looked like you were going to pass out for a moment, and then you suddenly… twitched."

"I…" Greg paused. What had happened? He remembered Mycroft sounding frantic in the dark, remembered sitting down, pulling out his mobile. He remembered looking at Mycroft in the light of the phone, and there was something strange about his appearance, something about his eyes… he rubbed his face hard with his empty hand as he tried to chase the memory, but it was gone. "I'm not sure. I feel okay now. Maybe I had a bit of a panic attack or something." All the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end.

"Yes, well, I'm pleased you are feeling better. It was a good idea, using your mobile phone for light. Something I should have thought of. I apologize for my earlier outburst, as well. It was a momentary lapse, and I will not let it happen again."

"Hey, Mycroft, don't worry about it. Anyone would get upset, kidnapped and chained up in the dark. You're allowed to have emotions, you know."

A tired smile appeared on Mycroft's face and he looked away from Greg before he answered in a voice so soft that Greg could barely hear it. "No, I'm really not."

The statement made Greg feel sad, made him feel sympathetic toward Mycroft for possibly the first time in their acquaintance. He had never really considered the constraints under which a man such as Mycroft Holmes must operate, but they must be pretty severe if he felt that he could not be emotional even in these circumstances. But he was not at all sure that his thoughts on the subject would be appreciated, so he kept them to himself.

A thought occurred to him, and he looked down at his phone screen. "It's about midnight, according to my phone. It should still be keeping accurate time, right, even without a connection?"

"Yes, I would imagine so."

"I wonder if they turned off the lights specifically because of the time. Bedtime for the prisoners and all that."

"It is possible."

Greg had been randomly pressing buttons on his phone in order to keep the light on. Now he looked down at, considering.

"You know, I can't keep this on all the time. The battery will go dead."

"Yes, I understand. You may shut it off at your leisure. I will not lose control again."

Greg shrugged. "I guess this is as good a time as any to try to get some sleep, then. First, though, I'm going to have a bit more water. Do you want some?" Mycroft nodded, and Greg went about the difficult process of scooping water in his hands and bringing it to Mycroft, before having a drink himself.

He looked around the room as Mycroft was drinking, trying to decide where he should lie down to sleep. The rounded room did not offer any corners, so Greg selected a spot along the wall, on the opposite side of the room from the stream and a good distance from the door. The spot he picked was also out of reach of Mycroft, which seemed important for some reason that Greg could not put his finger on.

Once both men had slaked their thirst, Greg moved to his chosen spot and sat down, still using his phone as a torch. Mycroft watched him through hooded eyes but did not comment. Greg shifted around a bit in an attempt to make himself comfortable, but the ground was hard and he did not have many options. He briefly considered using his shirt as a pillow, but the chill in the stone room stopped him. Instead he lay down with his back to the wall and folded one arm beneath his head.

"I'm going to kill the light now," Greg said, looking past his knees to where Mycroft sat propped against the wall, his chains glinting dully in the pale light.

"Fine," Mycroft responded, waving one hand in a dismissive gesture. Greg waited, but when Mycroft remained still and quiet, he went ahead and flipped his phone shut. The sudden dark was still shocking, even though he expected it. Greg immediately felt isolated, alone, and had to resist the urge to scoot over to where Mycroft sat just to feel him there.

"Goodnight, Mycroft." His voice sounded tremulous and weak in the darkness.

"Goodnight, Gregory."

Greg settled down, pillowing his head on one bent arm, and shifted until he was as comfortable as he could be on the hard dirt floor. He was not sure whether he would be able to sleep in these circumstances despite his exhaustion, but it would be better to face whatever was coming well-rested if at all possible. He closed his eyes, which made no difference at all in the quality of the darkness, and let his mind drift.

Predictably, his thoughts centered on their incarceration. His mind spun from the warehouse to waking up in this cell to the second that the lights went off, trying to find some detail, some new information that might help him figure out how to escape, but nothing caught his attention. And slowly, as time passed and the darkness and quiet echoed louder, Greg felt himself start to drift away.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks again to DancingGrimm for the fantastic beta and Brit-pick! I couldn't have done it without you! And thanks to everyone for your kind words and encouragement. I can't tell you what it means to me.

* * *

Greg was walking through a long, twisting corridor. Around him, stone walls arched heavy and dark and damp, glistening with moisture and slime. The air was cold and wet, sitting heavy in his lungs and reeking of decay. He paused, confused, and the sound of muffled footsteps echoed softly through the hall behind him, barely loud enough for him to hear. The sound filled him with terror, although he could not say why. Without thought or consideration, he ran.

The corridor was dim and winding and narrow. Greg sprinted forward, dodging through the twists and turns. Where his shoulders collided with the cold walls, thick wet slime clung to him, making him heavy and slow. The sound of his own panting breath rasped harshly in his ears. And beneath it, those footsteps still rang.

Greg kept running, but the corridor seemed to stretch out infinitely in front of him with no doors, no openings, only curves and sharp corners and a pervasive smell of rot. With each frantic step his feet felt heavier, and each step seemed infinitesimally shorter than the one before. The chasing footsteps sounded closer now.

"Gregory, this way!"

Greg jerked his head up. Mycroft! That was Mycroft, calling him from somewhere up ahead. Greg forced his legs to keep pumping, though each step now felt as if he had lead weights attached to his feet.

"Gregory, hurry!"

Greg rounded another bend in the corridor and saw it, a door directly ahead opening into a round stone chamber. He lurched forward, throwing his entire body into the effort of lifting his feet, which now felt as if they were made of stone themselves. He took a few stumbling steps closer to the door and then dropped to his knees, his feet simply too heavy to lift.

"Gregory, please!"

The footsteps echoing through the corridor behind him were much closer now. As Greg crawled forward on his hands and knees, dragging his heavy useless feet behind him, he heard a wet, ripping snarl reverberate through the hall. With an anguished cry, he crawled faster.

Suddenly he was there, inside the chamber. Instantly the weight left his feet and he stood easily. As he forced himself up he looked around, but the room was empty.

The door slammed shut behind him with a resounding clang, and Greg jumped. Just as he started to whirl around, the room went black. Greg stumbled in the pitch darkness, his arms flailing out wildly as he fought for balance, disoriented.

"Ahh, Gregory," Mycroft's voice purred from just behind him. "Right on time."

Greg felt a cold, dry hand encircle his neck. It should be Mycroft's, had to be his, but as they scraped along his flesh Greg could feel that each finger was tipped with a long, pointed talon.

His mouth fell open. He wanted to scream, to call for help, to beg, but his breath was frozen in his lungs and he could not speak. He just stood, helpless and motionless as the hand wrapped tightly around his throat. Then moist breath was gusting across his cheek, and when Mycroft spoke again, his voice was right in Greg's ear.

"Thank you so much for coming."

Greg shuddered as a wave of heat shot down his spine. This was wrong, so wrong; he was frightened and confused, and there was something truly terrifyingly off about Mycroft, but Greg could not stop the pulse of arousal that throbbed in him when Mycroft spoke.

He felt another hand settle on his chest and slide across the front of his shirt. Sharp points of pressure dragged up the planes of his chest, scratching softly across one of his nipples on the way past, and came to rest at his collar. There was a pulling sensation and then his top button popped off with a little snapping sound, letting his collar come open and exposing more of his throat. The next button followed it, and Greg sucked in a sharp breath as the cool air of the room brushed against his exposed flesh, sending a shiver down his back. He tipped his head back further, baring more of his throat. Behind him, Mycroft chuckled, voice rich and velvety in the darkness.

"Delightful."

Then the hand tightened hard on his neck, cutting off his breath, squeezing his throat. He felt a sharp burst of pain in the side of his neck, and then-

Greg woke with a start, lurching into a sitting position and clawing wildly at his throat before he realized where he was. He looked around, eyes wide, and saw that he was surrounded by the same rough stone walls as before, still trapped in this little room with Mycroft. Unconsciously, his hand continued to grope across the skin of his neck, but only smooth, unbroken skin met his searching fingertips.

The dream clung to him, details drifting away like mist in the sun but the emotional effects still lingering. Fear, even terror, throbbing in his veins and making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. But also present and equally strong was a dark, desperate lust. His pulse was hammering in his ears, his breath harsh and rapid, and he was achingly hard. The combination made him feel alive and aware in a way that he had not experienced in a long time, possibly ever.

But this was not the time to explore that feeling.

Greg took in a long slow breath and held it for a count of four before exhaling, willing his heart to slow down as he forced his breathing into a calmer pattern. His broken nose was throbbing, and he focused on the sensation of the pain in his face in an attempt to dispel any lingering arousal. Once he felt he had better control of himself, he rotated until his back was against the wall and then looked at Mycroft.

Only after his eyes fell on Mycroft, who was watching him with an expression of concern from where he was still chained securely to the wall, did Greg realize that he could see again.

"Hey, the light's back on!" he said, and then almost immediately felt like an idiot for stating the obvious.

"Yes. It came on a short time ago. By my estimate, it was off for eight hours. I believe your theory about bed time now has some empirical support."

Greg smiled. "Nice to know I can contribute." Mycroft smiled back, but the expression quickly turned into a grimace. Immediately, Greg moved over to Mycroft's side. "What's wrong? Is it your wrists? Let me see them."

Greg gently took Mycroft's arm and moved it as best he could, and Mycroft let him. The skin visible around the strips of Greg's vest on both of Mycroft's wrists was red and raw, with blisters beginning to rise on the surface. It looked much worse than it had yesterday. Greg knew better than to attempt to move the makeshift bandages he had applied the day before to look beneath them. "God, these look awful."

"They are fairly painful, I must admit." Mycroft hissed in a gasp as Greg rotated the arm he held, but his voice did not waver.

"I've never seen anything like this. Why is it so much worse? Is it some kind of chemical burn?"

"That is a possibility."

"Is there anything I can do?" Greg wanted to help, but he could not think of a single thing that might be useful with the limited resources at his disposal.

"I would quite like some more water, if you would not mind."

"Oh, yeah, right! More water, coming up."

Greg turned to the stream and scooped up a handful of water, carrying it carefully to Mycroft. As before, most of the water managed to drip through his fingers before he made it back to the other man, but Greg delivered what he could. He repeated the act several times, until Mycroft told him to stop, before getting some water for himself. He did not seem to be suffering any ill effects from drinking the water before, so he drank his fill without hesitation. It helped fill the emptiness in his belly.

"Do you suppose they might feed us today?" Greg asked once his thirst was quenched.

Mycroft's head snapped up at the question, his whole body filling with tension, and he stared intently at Greg with narrowed eyes. Greg froze, his head cocked slightly to the side as Mycroft's gaze roamed over him. He had no idea what he had done to provoke another Holmes stare-down.

"Mycroft?"

Abruptly, Mycroft jerked his gaze away and shook his head just slightly. Greg watched, still confused, as Mycroft squeezed his eyes tightly shut and shook his head again. His lips moved, almost as if he was talking to himself. Then he drew in a slow breath and looked back up at Greg, his expression bland.

"I'm sorry Gregory, I was distracted for a moment. What were you saying?"

"Uh… nothing important. I was just wondering if you thought we might get to eat today."

"It's hard to say without knowing more about our captors. I must say I am somewhat surprised that we have been left undisturbed for so long. I expected them to make contact before now. It is slightly worrying."

"Well, I can't imagine they brought us here just to let us starve to death, right?"

Mycroft shuddered visibly, but did not reply.

With nothing better to do, Greg sat back down along the rough wall, near enough to Mycroft to watch him but not quite near enough to touch. He felt a powerful urge to sit closer to the other man, to reach out and lay a hand on his knee, feel the texture of his expensive trousers and the shape of the limb beneath the cloth. But at the same time, something held him back; something other than just his wish to respect Mycroft's personal space. In the back of his mind, he feared the man, feared him in a way that he did not before their incarceration, and he did not know why. And somehow, the feeling sharpened his desire.

Mycroft, for his part, settled back into his customary sitting position, his hands held at shoulder height in deference to his chains, in a position that should have been awkward but instead looked deliberate and graceful. His eyes were closed, but Greg could tell by the tension in his body that he was not sleeping. His bruises stood out in lurid shades of purple and yellow and brown, his face even more hollow and pinched than yesterday.

Time passed. Greg did not know how long. He considered pulling out his phone and checking, but in the end he decided it was not important enough to use even that small an amount of battery life. It might be important later to have as much juice as possible.

Greg was hungry, his stomach growling loud enough that Mycroft opened his eyes and arched an eyebrow at him after a particularly strong grumble. He tried to fill the void with more water, but it only did so much, so after a while he just sat down and focused on ignoring it. And somehow, despite the terrifying and unsure nature of their situation, despite the fear of what might happen to them, as the minutes crawled past with no change and no interruption Greg found himself starting to get bored.

For lack of anything else to do, Greg tried to climb the walls. He kept silent and carefully did not look at Mycroft as he did it, in an attempt to avoid seeing the amused expression he was sure must be gracing Mycroft's aristocratic face. The roughness of the walls worked in his favor, and Greg was able to get good enough purchase to scale them up to about five feet off the ground before the curvature of the ceiling made it impossible to climb further. Being up that high did not afford him any new information about their cell, but he was grateful to have something to do to keep himself occupied and his mind off his stomach, at least for a bit.

Finally, he dropped back onto the dirt floor with a little huff, dusting off his hands.

"Well, I'm literally climbing the walls out of boredom. It's a good thing Sherlock isn't here, right? Who knows what he'd be doing by now." Greg turned to face Mycroft as he spoke, bracing himself for a snarky comment. Instead, he saw that Mycroft was slumped over against the wall with his arms out at strange angles in the manacles.

"Oh hell." Greg rushed to Mycroft's side and knelt, bringing one hand up to rest gently on his shoulder. Mycroft might just be sleeping, but the suddenness of it scared him. Softly, Greg shook Mycroft by the shoulder while quietly calling his name. Mycroft did not react.

Greg cursed and shook harder. Mycroft gave a soft groan and his head rolled to one side, eyes fluttering. Greg released the breath he was holding, relief rushing through him, as Mycroft opened his eyes.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked, unable to help it even though he knew the answer to that question already.

Mycroft did not respond. His eyes were clouded, dazed, focusing on nothing as he blinked against the harsh light. His head flopped backward as if his neck was not strong enough to support its weight, and as Greg watched his eyes started to slide closed again.

"Mycroft, hey!" Greg shook him again, harder. Mycroft's eyes flew open and snapped to Greg's with startling suddenness. His gaze cleared instantly and became sharp and hard, his narrowed eyes roving across Greg's face until they locked on his mouth.

"Mycroft?" Greg's voice sounded hesitant now, and he felt the muscles around his spine tighten. There was something disturbing about Mycroft's expression, something almost predatory. He pulled his hand off of Mycroft's shoulder and leaned back, suddenly needing to put some space between them.

At the sound of his name, Mycroft blinked again and shook his head just slightly. His gaze softened and he looked around the room again, blinking in confusion.

"Gregory?" Mycroft looked at him then, eyes soft with puzzlement.

"There you are." Greg smiled, feeling something in his chest loosen. "I think you passed out for a minute. Seemed kind of confused at first when you woke up."

"I passed out? God, I need to f… uh, eat."

"Oh shit, are you… what is it? Hypoglycemic? I had a cousin who had that. He would pass out sometimes. Always needed to drink juice when he woke up."

Mycroft hesitated. "Something similar, yes, although juice would not help me."

Greg grimaced as he looked around their cell, his worry for Mycroft gnawing away at his thoughts. "It's not as if we have any here anyway, is it? Is there anything I can do?"

"I don't believe so, thank you Gregory. But you have been incredibly helpful and generous already. Without your assistance, this whole experience would be significantly less pleasant." And Mycroft shook his wrists just a bit.

Greg felt himself blushing at Mycroft's praise, and dropped his eyes. "Would you like some more water, then? Might make you feel a little better."

"That would be nice, thank you."

Greg stood and moved toward the stream, but the sound of Mycroft pointedly clearing his throat stopped him. "If I may make a suggestion, Gregory."

"What? Oh, sure. Of course." Greg suddenly felt like an idiot, stumbling over his words. He could still feel the pressure in his palms from where he rested them on Mycroft's shoulders.

"I have a wallet that our captors did not find. It is leather, and may serve as an adequate drinking vessel for us. I cannot reach it," and he jangled his chains softly, "but if you could pull it out we can test the theory."

"Oh, yeah, good idea!" Greg regarded Mycroft for a moment. "Where is it?"

"It is hidden in a location where it is unlikely to be found during a casual search." Mycroft looked down, seeming almost shy. "I am sorry I didn't mention it before, but its contents are extremely sensitive and I did not want to risk them falling into the hands of our captors. However, I believe that it has now become worth the risk. This long silence leads me to believe that they are interested in something other than the minor information I might carry."

"Don't worry about it, I understand," Greg said easily. "I know the little water I've been able to scoop up in my hands can't be very satisfying for you. So where is it?"

Mycroft did not raise his eyes, but his voice was steady as he spoke. "It is in a pouch strapped to my inner thigh."

Greg felt his eyes widen and he sucked in a short, sharp breath before he could stop himself. His heart was suddenly hammering in his chest and he had to will himself to continue breathing at the same slow rate.

"Oh. I see," Greg managed to say after a moment. His voice sounded shaky to his own ears.

"Yes," Mycroft answered, finally lifting his eyes to meet Greg's. "Quite high up, in fact. It will be some effort to remove, given our… situation." Here he shook his arms slightly, making his chains rattle with a dull clink. "It is positioned so that you will need to push my trousers to my ankles in order to access it. And of course, the contents of the wallet are, as I mentioned, quite sensitive, so I will need you to carefully empty it and put everything you find back in the pouch. So you can see that getting to it might be somewhat uncomfortable for both of us."

"I… yes, I see what you mean." Greg swallowed, fighting the sudden flush of arousal that was rising in him. God, he hoped Mycroft could not see it. "But it will be worth it to have something besides my hands to hold water, right? So I'm game if you are." He tried hard to ignore the way that the muscles around his spine tightened in anticipation as he waited for Mycroft's response.

Mycroft hesitated, looking him over carefully before nodding. "Yes, I think so as well, which is why I suggested it."

"Right. Well then, let's get on with it."

Mycroft shifted, inching out from the wall and then reclining back until his shoulders rested against it, his hands held up beside his head to give himself some slack in the chains. He made a slight motion with one hand, a sort of "carry on" gesture that looked relaxed and languid despite the heavy shackles binding his wrists, the gesture of a king on his throne. Greg suppressed a sudden grin at the action, thinking that if anyone could appear regal in a situation like this one, it was Mycroft Holmes.

Silently, Greg scooted closer to Mycroft until he was kneeling just beside the man. He hesitated briefly, swallowing again, and then brought his hands to Mycroft's flies and started working the button.

It was awkward, not only socially but physically as well, to try to unfasten someone else's trousers from such an angle, and Greg fumbled for a bit before he managed to work the button free. Then he tried to pull the top open, but it would not move. Greg realized there must be another fastening, a button or a hook, inside the trousers. Carefully avoiding looking at Mycroft, he moved his fingers to the inside of the waistband and wiggled them around until his fingertips found a flat metal hook. Mycroft had a bit of a paunch at this angle, and his trousers were stretched fairly tight across his belly, which did not give Greg much room to maneuver.

As he wriggled his fingers further under the waistband to unlatch the little hook, Mycroft suddenly squirmed and released a choked sound. Greg froze and looked swiftly at Mycroft, who had turned his face away.

"Oh shit, I'm sorry, I…" Greg trailed off, looking carefully at Mycroft, who was blushing slightly and resolutely not looking back at him. "Mycroft, are you ticklish?"

Mycroft remained silent, and did not turn his head.

Greg could not stop the smile that burst onto his face. "Okay, I promise to be gentle then," he said, just slightly wiggling his fingers where they were trapped under Mycroft's waistband. Mycroft quivered with the effort of remaining still. "But I have to get this unhooked, so try to hold still and I'll make it quick."

Greg waited until Mycroft gave a tight nod, face still averted. Then he continued twisting and working his fingers under the tight waistband of Mycroft's trousers, moving just a little bit more than strictly necessary as he worked to unfasten the little hook.

Mycroft managed to keep still for several seconds before he let out a trilling, surprisingly high-pitched giggle and started squirming in earnest, trying to move away from Greg's fingers despite the heavy cuffs anchoring him in place on the wall. Greg shifted, giggling himself as he moved with Mycroft, still trying to get the trousers unfastened.

"Hold still or I won't be able to get it," he gasped out between laughs.

"No, just… I can't… please…," Mycroft answered, his words broken by continuing giggles. He kept writhing around, unable to hold still in the face of Greg's tickling.

"Just… oh, damn it!" Greg rose up on his knees and threw one leg over both of Mycroft's, coming to rest with his knees straddling Mycroft, pinning him in place. From that angle and with Mycroft trapped and relatively still, Greg was able to get a much better grip on the waistband and managed to free the hook after only a few seconds. As soon as he had the trousers unfastened he pulled his hands away, and Mycroft immediately fell still.

Both men were breathing heavily, Greg kneeling over Mycroft's legs with his hands held up as if in surrender. Looking down, he was struck hard by the sight of Mycroft Holmes, panting, red-faced, and disheveled, with the top of his trousers undone, waistcoat rucked up, and normally immaculate shirt pulled loose, leaning back with his hands chained to the wall. The image was shockingly, viscerally erotic, and it sent a jolt of arousal slamming through Greg's body.

Immediately, Greg lifted one leg and threw himself off Mycroft, flopping down on the dirt floor beside him and staring up at the ceiling. Mycroft did not move for a long moment, still panting, and Greg had no idea whether the other man had noticed his reaction to the tickling. He sincerely hoped not.

And after all that, he still had not managed to get Mycroft's trousers down, either. Fuck.

After a few minutes spent catching his breath, Mycroft cleared his throat. He was still flushed, but his voice was perfectly composed as he looked down at himself. "And after all that, you still haven't managed to get my trousers down."

Greg could not help himself. He threw back his head and laughed, a full deep belly laugh that echoed around the stark stone room. The situation was so absurd that he just could not stop himself. Teasing and tickling and sudden arousal while taking off Mycroft's trousers right in the middle of the most terrifying experience of Greg's life. So he laughed, and kept on laughing until his stomach hurt and his bruised face ached, until Mycroft started calling his name in a tone of concern.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's just…" Greg wiped at the moisture from one eye with his thumb, "this is so crazy, you know? If anyone was watching us, they would probably think we're insane, rolling around the floor laughing and undoing each other's trousers while kidnapped."

Mycroft offered a fleeting smile. "I highly doubt that we are being observed right now."

For some reason, Mycroft's sober tone immediately quashed Greg's budding hysteria. "Well, that's good then. Now, I suppose I should go ahead and finish getting that wallet."

"Yes." Mycroft shifted his hips a bit, drawing Greg's attention down to his unbuttoned trousers.

"Right. Good." Greg moved back to Mycroft's side and knelt. He unzipped the trousers quickly and with no further incidents, and then gripped them on either side of Mycroft's hips. His eyes flicked up to meet Mycroft's for a brief second, and what he saw there made him swallow against the sudden dryness in his throat as a wave of heat passed through him.

Mycroft was watching him intently, biting softly on his lower lip. When Greg's eyes met his, he saw a flare of something like heat in the usually cool blue gaze. And somehow, despite the bruises on his face, despite the gaunt, unhealthy stretch of his skin, or perhaps because of these things, Mycroft suddenly looked dangerous. Predatory. _Hungry._

Greg swallowed as a tremor of arousal shuddered down his spine, and Mycroft's gaze jumped to his throat to watch the bob of his Adam's apple.

Greg dropped his eyes to his hands and gave Mycroft's trousers a tug as Mycroft helpfully arched his hips up off the ground, and his trousers slid down smoothly, revealing dark blue silk boxers. Greg paused, swallowed again, and pulled the trousers down to Mycroft's knees.

"The pouch is inside the leg of my boxer shorts. Right leg."

"Oh," Greg answered, suddenly breathless. Mycroft had been correct about the need to pull his trousers all the way down, certainly. There was no way Greg could get to something hidden _there_ without Mycroft spreading his legs.

Greg worked Mycroft's trousers further down his legs, aided by Mycroft's shifting and adjusting to lift various limbs as needed, until they were bunched up at his feet, just above his shoes.

Mycroft immediately spread his legs, drawing his knees up and letting them fall open. Greg could not help but watch, his dry mouth suddenly flooding with saliva at the sight of Mycroft's bulge so clearly outlined beneath the taut fabric of his shorts stretched across his spread thighs. He felt his face heat and quickly averted his gaze, looking instead at the pale beige band of fabric just visible beneath one leg of Mycroft's boxers.

"Is that it?" Greg asked unnecessarily, pointing at the band. He was proud that his voice was steady. Then he made the mistake of looking up to meet Mycroft's eyes.

Mycroft was still staring at him, intense and direct as he breathed heavily through his nose. His expression was part challenge, part desire, and part hunger, and every bit of it hit Greg hard with a wave of lust. Then Mycroft dropped his eyes, and the moment was broken. Greg took a deep breath before moving forward to get the wallet.

The band was strapped high on Mycroft's thigh beneath the leg of his boxers, with the actual pouch containing the wallet tucked even further up, resting almost at the crease where Mycroft's leg met his groin. Greg tried to be careful not to touch skin as he slid his fingers up under the silky fabric of Mycroft's underwear, but the space was small and tight and he could not help it. His fingertips brushed soft cool skin and sparse hair, and no matter how carefully he moved, his knuckles still bumped softly against the bulge of Mycroft's cock.

Greg managed to grip the tiny zip tab in his blunt fingers and pulled open the pouch, trying and failing to ignore the way Mycroft's breath quickened in reaction to his fumbling. He reminded himself that it was just a physical response to stimulation and probably also a certain amount of adrenaline, and meant nothing. His own reaction to the feel of Mycroft's skin, the sight of him, the musky smell of his sweat, was completely inappropriate and no doubt influenced by his own adrenaline rush, and needed to be forced down before he said or did something really embarrassing.

Greg worked his fingers into the pouch and gripped a slim leather object. He had to turn it and tug it a bit to get it out of the tight space, the motion causing him to drag his knuckles once more across what was, he could not help but notice, becoming a slightly larger bulge, and Mycroft sucked in a hissing breath. Greg felt his face heat at the sound and he carefully kept his eyes averted as a shiver ran down his spine.

With one good, hard tug, the wallet finally came free, and Greg sat back on his heels, making some space between Mycroft and himself. He was breathing harder than the level of exertion involved in extracting a wallet should require, and he could hear that Mycroft was as well. He did not look up.

"Now Gregory," Mycroft said after a moment, his voice steady and smooth, "you need to remove any cards and documents you find inside and return them to the pouch. Do not read anything, please, and make sure that nothing gets overlooked. It is important that the contents of that wallet remain hidden."

Greg nodded without making eye contact. He was sure that if he tried to speak, his voice would not come out as unaffected as Mycroft's, and he could not stand the humiliation of that. It was an unintentional physical response, and he needed to get a grip on himself!

The wallet was very slim, a flat fold of shiny black leather. Greg flicked it open and set to work pulling out everything he could find. He made an effort to avoid really seeing any of the things he was touching, Mycroft's warning still ringing in his ears, but he had to look to make sure nothing got missed, and it was impossible to completely ignore the things in his hands. In fact, thinking about Mycroft's admonition almost felt like it made him pay even more attention, no matter how hard he tried not to.

There was an ID card bearing a symbol that Greg did not recognize, identifying Mycroft Holmes and marked with a series of letters and numbers that, Greg imagined, allowed him access to some kind of top secret something. There was a tightly folded piece of paper covered in handwritten lines using an alphabet Greg had never seen before. There were several scraps of paper that looked to have been torn from a larger piece, each with several markings that may have been some kind of secret code or just random doodles. There was a little stub of plastic and metal that looked to Greg like an extremely tiny version of a USB drive. There was paper money in four different currencies and a credit card with someone else's name on it.

Moving quickly, Greg extracted all the odds and ends from the wallet. He wound up with a surprisingly thick stack of loose papers given the slimness of the wallet, the one ID card, two credit cards, the money, and the little USB thing. Once he was done, Greg felt like he had calmed down enough to make eye contact with Mycroft again.

When he looked up, Mycroft was looking at Greg's hands. He seemed totally calm, no evidence of a blush or any other kind of lingering discomfort. Greg swallowed against a little twist of disappointment.

"That appears to be everything," Mycroft said as he watched Greg close the wallet and set it aside. "Please be careful to put it all back in the pouch. The storage device especially."

"Right." Greg swallowed again and brought his hands back to Mycroft's thigh. He shoved the leg of the shorts up in order to see the pouch better, and then started stuffing things back inside. The opening was small, and it was not easy for him to get everything through. Yet again, he found his fingers touching parts of Mycroft unintentionally. And despite his coolness, Mycroft was clearly affected, wiggling slightly and breathing heavily.

The last thing Greg pushed into the pouch was the tiny USB drive, and then he carefully pulled the zip closed. He let out a breath he had not realized he was holding and scooted backward away from Mycroft.

"Okay, done. Your stuff is safe, and we have a cup." Greg held up the empty leather wallet in triumph, offering an only slightly forced smile to Mycroft, who responded with a small tired grin of his own.

"All that for a drinking vessel."

"No kidding. On the other hand, now seems like a good time to try it out. I know I could use a drink."

"Could you perhaps take a moment to pull my trousers back up before you test it out?" Mycroft asked in his calm tone. Greg felt like slapping himself in the forehead.

"Shit, I'm sorry. Yes, of course." Greg grabbed the trousers from where they were bunched at Mycroft's feet and pulled them up quickly until they were back around Mycroft's waist, more or less. He hesitated before moving to refasten them, and Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Please only fasten the button and the zip. You can leave the internal hook undone."

Greg hesitated before replying. "But that's the part I was most looking forward to," he said before he could lose his nerve. He was rewarded with the sight of Mycroft's eyes jumping to meet his before darting away again just as quickly, a tiny smile gracing his thin lips.

"It's always nice to have something to anticipate, isn't it?"

Greg grinned and flourished the wallet. "May I offer you a drink, Mister Holmes?"

Mycroft smiled. "You may. And I though kidnappings were a 'first names' situation?"

Greg returned his smile before bending over the little stream and scooping some water into the open wallet. It held quite a bit more than he was able to cup in his hands, and he was pleased to see that it did not run out when he raised it to return to Mycroft.

As he approached, Mycroft extended his hand. Greg handed it over, and the chains were just long enough to allow Mycroft to bring the makeshift cup to his lips and drink without assistance. He swallowed down the cool water with apparent relish before offering the wallet back to Greg.

Greg got himself a drink next. The water tasted just slightly of leather as he drank from the wallet, but it was barely noticeable, and Greg was grateful to get more than a swallow at a time.

"Another?" he asked, once he had finished his own drink.

"Not right now, thank you. I think I would like to rest again." Mycroft was leaning against the wall behind him, eyes already closed. He looked exhausted, and even more ill than he had before. Greg suddenly felt guilty for the physical strain involved in getting the wallet.

"Of course." Greg moved back to Mycroft's side and squeezed one of his shoulders briefly before he could stop himself. Mycroft looked up at him in surprise for a moment before closing his eyes once more.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg sat quietly, trying not to disturb Mycroft. He was starting to feel seriously worried for the other man. The burns on his arms were clearly getting worse and spreading, despite the fact that there was nothing visible that should be causing such a reaction, and he seemed to be getting more ill and fatigued by the hour. Greg felt guilty all over again for the tickling episode. Not only was it was completely inappropriate, but probably used up a large part of his remaining energy.

Greg's stomach growled, loud and long. He winced, clutching at himself. His hunger pains had progressed past the stage of dull hollowness and were now sharp and cruel, stabbing at him viciously. He did not move, though. Water was not helping any more, and unless their unknown captors chose to provide some food, Greg was just going to have to live with the pain.

After a full day in this cell, Greg's fear had been reduced to a low hum in the back of his mind, subsumed first by his boredom and now by his concern for Mycroft. But as he sat, watching Mycroft sleep and working to ignore the pains in his stomach, he could feel a new emotion starting to rise: anger.

He welcomed the feeling, embraced it. Anger was better than terror, better than helplessness, better than weakness. It gave him strength and a feeling of purpose, useless though it may be.

He was angry at their captors, for doing whatever they had done to make Mycroft so ill, for locking them in this cell with no food, for leaving them here to rot. And although he knew it was irrational, he was angry at Mycroft's security team for allowing them to be captured in the first place, angry with the Met and Mycroft's people and even Sherlock for leaving them here, for not having rescued them yet.

Greg slouched back against the wall, his legs extended in front of him, and closed his eyes. He stewed in his anger for a while, nurturing it, until he was feeling righteous and powerful. In his mind he constructed daydreams in which he had the chance to face their captors, fight them directly, and emerge victorious. The fantasies gave him some comfort, even as he scoffed at himself.

After a while the quiet and stillness and the pleasant sound of the little stream flowing through the stone chamber lulled him, and he dozed off.

Greg was pulled from his light slumber by a sudden loud yell. Startled, he jerked up into a sitting position and looked around wildly.

Mycroft was slumped over in his now-familiar sleeping position across the room. As Greg's eyes fell on him, Mycroft thrashed weakly in the chains and yelled something unintelligible, followed by a rapid stream of words that Greg could not interpret. He could not even tell whether they were spoken in another language or were a just string of nonsense syllables.

Mycroft yelled out again and his head rolled from side to side. His arms flailed, making his chains jangle. Another stream of mumbled words followed and this time, although Greg still could not understand them, there was no mistaking the sorrowful tone of Mycroft's voice.

Greg lurched to his feet and moved across the room to Mycroft. He squatted down directly in front of the sleeping man and put his hands on Mycroft's shoulders, giving him a good shake and calling his name to try to pull him from the obvious nightmare.

Instantly Mycroft's eyes snapped open and fixed on Greg. Greg had only a second to see that there was something wrong with them _black, Jesus they're completely black _before Mycroft lunged at him. His fingers curled into hooked talons as he clawed blindly at Greg, fighting against the hold of his manacles. His mouth dropped open and he emitted a sound that Greg could only describe as a hiss, throwing his upper body forward between his shackled arms.

"Shit!" Greg lurched backwards, losing his balance and sprawling out on his arse on the dirt floor a few feet away from Mycroft. He frantically pushed with his legs until he was well out of Mycroft's reach, coming to rest nearly in the little stream. Reacting on instinct, he scooped up a handful of the water and threw it directly into Mycroft's face.

Mycroft immediately rocked backwards, sputtering, and banged his head hard against the stone wall. He tossed his head from side to side, snorting and panting as if he had been running. Greg's heart hammered in his chest and adrenaline flooded through his system as he watched Mycroft closely.

After a minute, Mycroft fell still, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. He exhaled once and then opened his eyes, slowly lifting his gaze to meet Greg's. His brow was furrowed, eyebrows drawn together, and he looked confused. Greg did not move, except to look back at him. His eyes looked completely normal.

"Gregory?" He sounded confused too. Greg could not shake the feeling, though, that it was an act.

"Mycroft." Greg stayed where he was.

"What happened? Why am I wet?"

Greg let out his breath and sat up straighter. Mycroft appeared genuinely puzzled, and although something about it rang false to Greg, he had no idea why he thought so. He scooted over until he was not in danger of getting his trousers wet in the little stream, taking care to ensure that he remained well outside of Mycroft's reach.

"You were having a nightmare, I think. You were yelling and talking in your sleep." Mycroft seemed to go pale at Greg's statement, although it was difficult to tell under the bruises.

"What did I say?"

"No idea. You weren't speaking English. Honestly, I'm not even sure it was actual words." Mycroft let out a soft breath that sounded like relief. "I tried to wake you up and you… well, you sort of attacked me."

"Oh God. Did I… are you okay?"

"Fine, just startled." That was an enormous understatement, but Greg did not want to explain the way that Mycroft's eyes had seemed to go solid black, or the way he sounded almost feral when he hissed. "I jumped backward, and then splashed water in your face to try to wake you up."

"I see." Mycroft fell silent and looked away from Greg. He was tense, his muscles tight, and he appeared to be thinking deeply. Greg stayed where he was, his eyes never leaving Mycroft. Adrenaline still pulsed in him, and strange little shudders of anticipation trickled down his spine every time Mycroft shifted.

After several minutes of silence, Mycroft turned to look back at Greg. As soon as their eyes met, Greg felt a much stronger tingle shiver down his back, somehow both pleasurable and anxious. He caught his breath and willed himself into stillness, though the sensation made him want to fidget. Mycroft did not appear to notice his reaction.

"Gregory, although I appreciate your concern, I think it would be best if you did not attempt to wake me from any other nightmares in the future. I find that I am having increasing difficulty becoming lucid after I sleep, and I am afraid that I might do something to hurt you inadvertently."

"Yeah, I think that might be best," Greg answered. Mycroft nodded, looking pained.

"If this goes on much longer, I am afraid that something bad may happen." Mycroft seemed to be talking to himself, but Greg answered him anyway.

"I think you might be right."

Mycroft looked at him, startled, and then rubbed a hand across his face. He had to stretch awkwardly in the chains and lean his head over to reach. The sight reminded Greg that, despite what he might have done – or almost done, or tried to do – Mycroft was still chained to the wall and posed no threat to him. As long as he stayed out of reach.

Greg sighed and heaved himself to his feet. He started to move toward the patch of wall he was coming to think of as "his spot" when Mycroft cleared his throat. Greg paused, casting a glance at Mycroft.

"Would you mind bringing me a drink of water?" Mycroft's expression was serious. Greg got the impression that, if he said he did in fact mind, Mycroft would not press the issue. And in all honestly, the thought of getting that close to Mycroft right now sent a cold little trickle of dread into the pit of his stomach.

On the other hand, Mycroft was an injured man chained to a wall and he had no means of accessing the water himself. Greg was not a monster, and he could not refuse to help someone in that situation regardless of his own feelings, irrational or otherwise.

"Of course." Greg picked up their makeshift drinking vessel from its resting place beside the stream and filled it with water. Turning, he could feel his heart rate increase as he looked at Mycroft, who was watching him closely. Mycroft's expression was placid, but his eyes were alive with too many emotions for Greg to identify. As their eyes met, something flared briefly behind Mycroft's guarded expression. Greg felt another one of those tingling nervous shivers move down his spine, and a feeling of heat joined the cold sensation of dread in his stomach. The combination made his heart beat even faster and his breath stutter in his chest.

Greg deliberately broke eye contact with Mycroft as he stepped closer. He stopped just outside the range of Mycroft's legs and leaned in to offer the water-filed wallet, holding it so that Mycroft could reach the wallet but not Greg's arm. Mycroft did not comment on the unnatural and uncomfortable angle at which Greg was standing. He just took the wallet from his hand with a murmured "thank you" and drank the water slowly before passing it back. Greg noted with concern that the angry red flesh and blisters had now spread from the backs of Mycroft's hands halfway to his elbows, but he did not comment.

Greg moved over to his patch of wall after taking the wallet back from Mycroft and sat down. He deliberately avoided looking at Mycroft, but from the corner of his eye he saw that the other man was leaning back with his eyes closed, apparently content to sit in silence again.

Closing his own eyes, Greg let his mind wander back to the earlier incident. Mycroft, yelling and talking in some other language, his sudden and vicious attack when Greg tried to wake him, his disturbing eyes. God, his eyes. Greg could not decide if he had really seen what he thought he saw. Because his first impression was that Mycroft's eyes had gone completely dark – not only his irises and pupils but the whole of both eyes – a pure terrible endless blackness. It was not possible, was it, for Mycroft's eyes to change color like that? Honestly, no one had eyes like that. No one. Ever.

Greg tried to convince himself that what he saw was just a trick of the light, some combination of shadow and reflection that made Mycroft's perfectly normal blue-grey eyes look black. Or maybe he was just imagining it completely, some kind of strange hallucination or something brought on by hunger and fear and the shock of being attacked by Mycroft. Both of these explanations made more sense than the idea that he had really seen a man's eyes turn solid black and then back to normal, but somehow neither one was very convincing.

For no particular reason, Greg found himself thinking of the previous night, when the lights went out. The details were fuzzy in his head, which he attributed to shock and the residual effect of the drug with which he had been dosed, but he remembered using his phone for light and then having some kind of panic attack. Afterwards, he had felt a lingering sense of fear around Mycroft, though he could not recall why. He just assumed it had something to do with an association formed during his little freak-out. Now he was not so sure.

That odd feeling had disappeared today, in the light, as he and Mycroft had talked and shared a kind of camaraderie in their captivity, but it was back with a vengeance now.

Somehow, though, that was not the only thing Greg was feeling. He could not deny the pull, the strange bursts of heat that blossomed in him each time their eyes met. He had known for a while that he was attracted to Mycroft; the man had poise and razor-sharp intellect and a dry wit that Greg had always appreciated, and he was really quite handsome in a posh, aristocratic way. Greg could admit, in the privacy of his own head, that he fancied Mycroft just a little bit.

But now, for some reason, the intensity of that desire had increased significantly. Despite being injured and chained to a wall, Mycroft seemed dangerous here in a way that Greg had never noticed before. It was not only his political or social authority but the man himself that seemed menacing now. And every time Mycroft did something that made his blood race and his heart thump in his chest, Greg felt a flush of excitement that was only heightened by the sense of fear that inevitably went along with it.

Greg was finding himself drawn to that feeling like a moth to a flame.

God, he was so fucked.

Greg opened his eyes and checked on Mycroft, who seemed to have fallen back into a fitful doze. He was rolling his head and making little sounds, but was otherwise still. Greg closed his eyes again and tried to think of something else.

Time passed, punctuated only by the intermittent growling of Greg's stomach and the occasional soft cry from Mycroft. A few times the volume and intensity of his thrashing increased, but Greg knew better than to attempt to wake him. Instead he just watched from his place across the room, worry and fear and desire and affection warring in his mind but none emerging victorious, until Mycroft fell still again.

Without external cues of some kind, Greg was having difficulty measuring the passage of time, but as the hours stretched out he was getting increasingly sure that midnight must be approaching. The thought of being plunged into that endless blackness again was suddenly terrifying; he would not be able to see Mycroft, and he felt an overwhelming need to make sure that he could keep Mycroft in his sight at all times. The thought of being dropped into the dark by surprise was even less appealing, and finally Greg broke down and pulled out his mobile to check the time.

11:48 PM.

Well, he had to give himself points for accuracy.

Greg decided to wake Mycroft. He felt the need to warn him that the lights might go off soon, especially after the way that he had reacted last night. On the other hand, he had no intention of putting himself in a position to be attacked again if Mycroft woke up disoriented.

"Hey Mycroft," he called out without moving from his position across the room. Mycroft did not react. "Mycroft!" Greg tried again, louder. Still nothing. He cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered. "Hey Mycroft!"

Mycroft's head rolled against the stone wall and his eyelids fluttered for a moment before opening. He squinted around the room, blinking muzzily. Even from his distance, Lestrade could see that his eyes were perfectly normal.

"Mycroft, it's almost midnight. If they are going to turn the lights off again, it will probably be soon."

"Mmm." Mycroft's eyes continued wandering around the space without focusing on Greg, and Greg could not be sure that Mycroft had even heard him. Jesus, he seemed much worse than before. He looked really, seriously ill.

"Do you want more water before it gets dark?" Greg asked, starting to pull himself to his feet.

"Nnn… no… don't…," Mycroft said, his words sounding slurred and mushy. "Stay there. Don't come over." He struggled to focus his eyes on Greg.

"Uh, okay." Greg scooped himself a quick drink of water from a part of the stream as far from Mycroft as possible, not wanting to cause him stress when he was clearly already suffering. Then he moved back to his customary spot and sat, trying not to let his anxiety show on his face.

Greg tried to count down the minutes until lights out. He had just passed eighteen minutes and was beginning to wonder, when they suddenly blinked out, and again Greg was plunged into the darkest blackness he had ever experienced.

He heard a low, pained groan come from Mycroft as soon as the lights went out, and nearly had to stop himself from going over and offering comfort despite his own fears and Mycroft's express wishes. God, the man must be terrified of the dark. He refrained, though, and instead sat himself back against the wall in a somewhat reclined position, settling in for a long night.

"Have a good night, Mycroft," he finally said after a long moment of silence. There was no reply.

Greg closed his eyes, unintentionally listening for the sound of Mycroft moving. With the lights out his fears and worried rushed back on him powerfully. He had almost managed to convince himself that he had imagined the thing with Mycroft's eyes, but in the darkness he found himself thinking about it again.

What if he had seen it, then? What could possibly explain something like that? He reached for an answer that made sense, but none presented themselves. Instead, his mind conjured images of demons and monsters and magic. These thoughts seemed silly in the light, but here in the dark and the quiet anything was possible.

And now he could not see Mycroft at all, had no idea what he might be doing.

Greg's hand slipped into his pocket and he clutched his mobile tight in his hand as he listened intently. Silence, broken only by the inappropriately soothing sound of the stream running through the cell, met his ears. Mycroft must be sitting very still.

_Or, _his mind supplied unhelpfully, _he is creeping through the darkness right now, getting close and closer…_

Greg felt his muscles tense as he turned himself slightly toward where he thought Mycroft was chained, moving until his hands were in front of him, clenched tightly into fists. He gritted his teeth and held his breath, listening hard, but now all he could hear was his own heart beating in his ears. The urge to flick open his mobile for light was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

_What if he's there, though? What if you turn on the light and he's right next to you, staring at you with pure black eyes, grinning…_

Greg had to fight to hold in the whine rose in his throat at that mental picture. He pressed himself back against the wall, eyes rolling in his head as he attempted to see something in the total darkness.

The sound of Mycroft's chains clinking softly as he changed position was so unexpected that Greg jumped, knocking his head on the wall hard enough that white spots momentarily bloomed in front of his eyes. Then Mycroft muttered a long string of undecipherable sounds, his voice soft in the hush of the room.

Greg leaned forward, rubbing the back of his head with one hand, his brief moment of panic dissipating. He laughed at himself, shaking his head in embarrassment, and was grateful that Mycroft could not see him sitting there acting like an idiot.

Christ, of course Mycroft was not sneaking up on him in the darkness like some kind of fairy tale monster. Honestly, if he had had the ability to get out of his bonds so easily all this time, Greg would have to have a serious talk with him about priorities. He was just a man, regardless of the weird shit Greg might or might not have seen his eyes doing, and an extremely ill one at that.

Greg leaned back against the wall once more, his posture relaxed, and let his eyes fall shut. He was being stupid, and he knew it. He did not think he would sleep much tonight, and had probably only slept so deeply the previous night because of the tranquilizer still in his system from the dart. But he could try to relax and get some rest, now that he had got through that ridiculous and pointless panic.

Greg let his mind drift, thinking mostly about all the delicious things he could eat when they finally got out of here, and barely noticed when he started to doze.

He deliberately did not acknowledge the way that a small part of his attention remained completely focused on listening for any sounds of movement from Mycroft's direction.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Greg managed to get a little bit of sleep, none of it especially deep or restful, and he came awake immediately the next morning as soon as the light came back on. Mycroft had been restless all night, murmuring in that strange other language, rattling his chains. A few times he had shouted out, which had badly startled Greg every time. Greg called his name a few times, but he never answered.

Now that the lights were on, Greg finally got a look at him. Mycroft looked much worse this morning; his skin, mottled with yellow and purple and brown, looked stretched and thin over his cheekbones, as if it might tear through at a sudden movement. He looked terribly gaunt, almost starved. His arms were covered in angry red raw flesh and blisters from his fingers up into the scrunched up sleeves of his jacket, and right around his wrists, where Greg had tied his makeshift bandages on their first night here, the skin looked like it was cracking open, deep red fissures starting to spread from beneath the cuffs.

Greg was horrified to realize that the cooking meat smell was strong enough now to be noticeable even from across the room.

Greg burned with the desire to go over to Mycroft, wake him and offer some comfort, but he refrained. Even if he were willing to risk another attack, he did not want to put any further stress on Mycroft, who clearly needed his rest. Besides, it was not as if he had any real help to offer other than kind words and a pat on the back.

With a sigh, Greg stood, stretched, and moved to get some water. As he was drinking from their wallet cup, Mycroft shifted again, and started to speak quietly. Greg ignored it, until he realized that this time Mycroft was speaking English.

"… can't possibly… Sherlock, no… have to stop, not right… use your thralls like that… killing them… regret…"

Greg stepped back, feeling an irrational need to give Mycroft some privacy. It sounded like he was dreaming about something from his childhood, something to do with Sherlock. Greg had always secretly wondered whether Sherlock had been the type to kill small animals when he was younger, and Mycroft's mumblings certainly made it sound that way. In Sherlock's defense, it was probably because he wanted to see how they worked on the inside, not just to watch them die, but still. The idea sent a little shiver down Greg's spine.

Greg settled back down in his spot along the wall, facing toward Mycroft. He wanted to keep an eye on the other man, even if there was nothing he could do for him, but he also wanted to be far enough away that he could not hear much of what he was muttering.

The hours passed, punctuated by the occasional growl from Greg's stomach and frequent murmured sounds from Mycroft. Greg was so hungry now that the pains had faded into a sort of constant gnawing ache, which he found easier to ignore somehow. He leaned back against the wall, composing meals in his mind and keeping one eye on Mycroft.

Finally, sometime during what Greg estimated to be late morning, Mycroft seemed to wake up a bit. He shook his head and blinked groggily around the room before shaking his hands hard at his sides. He seemed startled when they did not move freely, whipping his head around to examine first one wrist and then the other.

"Mycroft, are you…?" Greg tailed off, not wanting to ask a stupid question. He tried again. "How are you feeling?"

Mycroft's eyes jumped to his as soon as he started speaking, but he did not seem to recognize him. He squinted at Greg and then looked back up at his bonds before responding to the question. When he spoke, his voice was high and soft and quavery, like that of a frightened child.

"My head feels all funny. I can see the reflections of my thoughts bouncing around the room, but nothing new gets in and I can't get out. Is it the water?"

He paused, looking at Greg as if he expected an answer, but Greg did not have one to supply. He was completely poleaxed by the sight of Mycroft Holmes babbling delirious nonsense.

After a moment, Mycroft continued, still in that sad little voice. "My arms are on fire. The silver burns like acid. It makes me weak."

Another pause, as Mycroft rested back against the wall and seemed to catch his breath. Greg still had no idea how to respond, or even whether he should.

"I need blood."

Something about this matter-of-fact statement sent a stab of ice right into the center of Greg's stomach. He knew that Mycroft was delirious and not in his head, and nothing that he said right now mattered, but it was creepy nonetheless. He watched Mycroft carefully, but the other man seemed to have exhausted his energy for the time being. He was slumping back against the wall as Greg watched, clearly losing consciousness.

Time passed, but Mycroft did not wake again. He continued to mutter and murmur and sometimes shout, most often those strange-sounding syllables that Greg was becoming convinced now were some other language, although not one he had heard before. Occasionally he spoke in English, but never complete sentences. Greg did his best not to listen.

Unable to stand it, Greg took to checking the time on his phone periodically. He sat, stood, and paced the width of the cell, staying well clear of Mycroft, as the hours dragged past. He was so concerned about the other man that he almost completely forgot about his own hunger as he wracked his brain for something he could do to help.

As the afternoon drew to a close, Mycroft cried out again, this time in clear English.

"Please!"

Greg jumped, startled, and spun to face Mycroft from where he was examining the door to the cell. He was still slumped over in his chains, his head hanging down so that Greg could not see his face, and he was shaking.

"Please, it hurts, it hurts so much. Please, I need it, oh god please…." His voice broke and he started sobbing.

Greg immediately walked toward him, earlier concerns be damned. He could not possibly ignore something like this. When he was a few steps away, he extended a hand.

"Mycroft, it's okay. What do you-" He broke off as a new sound registered in his consciousness – a clanking sound coming from the other side of the huge door. Immediately he spun to place himself between Mycroft and whatever might be coming though.

The door opened almost instantly, revealing a sliver of yellow light and something Greg could not see clearly, something complicated and vaguely mechanical. There was a pause, and then the door opened further, revealing the object.

It was a crossbow.

A man slid into the room, looking terrified, holding a crossbow in front of him fitted with what seemed to be a plain wooden spike. He was tall and slim, with light skin and dark brown hair, dressed in shabby unwashed clothes. The man rattled off a string of words as he entered, and this language Greg knew he had heard before, although he had no idea what was being said. An eastern European language, possibly.

Another man followed, dressed similarly to the first and also holding a crossbow. This one seemed less afraid, but his eyes were hard when he looked at Greg. He spoke as well, still in that other language. Then he moved to the side to try to get a look at Mycroft.

Greg started to move as well, trying to stay between them and shield Mycroft with his body. But as soon as he twitched, both men straightened up and he found two crossbows pointed directly at his face. He froze.

A third man entered, much brawnier than the first two but similar in coloration. He squeezed in between the other men, crowding the end of the stone room. This one carried a gun. He pointed it at Greg and spoke, harsh and commanding. Greg did not understand the words, but the tone was clear. Then the man beckoned him closer, still pointing the gun directly at him.

Greg hesitated, and the man shouted, brandishing the gun. Behind him, Greg heard Mycroft mutter unintelligibly at the sound. As soon as he started speaking, all three of the men startled and for a moment Greg thought he was going to get a crossbow bolt in the leg. Then Mycroft fell still and the men seemed to relax slightly. One of the crossbow-wielding men spoke, obviously addressing the others, his tone suggesting a question.

The man with the gun, who Greg mentally dubbed Hairy Knuckles, did not waver. He spoke again, sharp and fast, and then narrowed his eyes. He took two steps into the room and reached out, snagging Greg's shirt and jerking him forward. Greg stumbled, but Hairy Knuckles kept hold of him, pulling him out of the room. He tried to resist and felt the cold hard press of the gun barrel against his forehead.

As the man dragged him out of the chamber, closely followed by both of the men with the crossbows, he heard Mycroft call out again. Then the door slammed shut with a horribly final sound.

Before Greg could do more than find his balance, his arms were being wrenched behind him and bound with what felt like thin chains. He winced as they were pulled tight, pinching and biting into the tender skin of his wrists. Hairy Knuckles stood, facing him impassively, still holding the gun against his head until the man binding his wrists said something. Then he lowered the gun and turned away. A hand roughly grabbed Greg by his bound wrists and pushed him along behind.

They were in an arched stone passageway, rough-worked like the cell, which turned a sharp corner some way ahead. The ground was still dirt, and the light came from lanterns, hung at irregular intervals along the walls. As Greg stumbled along after Hairy Knuckles he tried to take note of where they were, just in case he had to find his way back for Mycroft later.

The passage eventually ended in a stairwell, narrow and steep, with steps cut to irregular heights. Greg was shoved up the stairs, struggling to hold his balance with his wrists bound. He could feel the lack of food affecting him, as well, making him dizzy and faint as he worked to keep up. He was already panting.

The stairs climbed and climbed, and Greg started to wish he had thought to count them. He did not see any openings as they ascended, and lanterns were hung along these walls too. Crosses were carved into the stone walls here and there, old and pitted and stained with damp. The sight of them was strangely ominous.

Finally, just as Greg was starting to wonder whether he might just pass out from the exertion, they reached the top of the stairs. The room into which they emerged was masonry rather than roughly carved stone, and it looked ancient, covered with lichen and crumbling mortar. The space reeked of damp and decay.

Hairy Knuckles turned and passed through an arched doorway in one wall, and Greg was pushed along behind him. He was walked through a series of rooms and corridors, all unfurnished and made of the same ancient masonry. A cross was carved into the keystone set in the top of each arch. The sight of them made Greg uneasy.

Finally he was pushed into a room that contained furniture: a rickety wooden table and two splintery chairs. Although the form was somewhat different, Greg immediately recognized the set-up for what it was: an interrogation room.

He was led over to one of the chairs and pushed down, his captor taking care to slide his bound wrists over the back of the chair, which effectively immobilized his arms. He sat gratefully, still panting from his climb up the stairs. Besides, he imagined that this was the only comfort he was likely to have for a while.

Then one of the crossbow guys came around the chair and bound Greg's feet together, using regular rope this time.

Hairy Knuckles sat on the other side of the table and regarded Greg in silence for a few minutes, the gun jammed haphazardly into the waistband of his trousers. Greg looked back, allowing his anger at these men to show on his face, although he doubted that they would care much.

Eventually, Hairy Knuckles spoke, a rapid stream of words that might as well have been gibberish for all Greg could understand.

"I have no idea what you're saying," Greg answered, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders, trying to pantomime 'confused' without using his hands. The man broke off and looked at him, then said something else.

"Seriously, I don't speak whatever language that is."

Hairy Knuckles scowled at him and then spoke again, slow and loud. Greg waited until he finished.

"Nope, that didn't help. Sorry." He added a little smirk, trying out his best Sherlock "you're an idiot" impression.

Hairy Knuckles stepped around the table and backhanded him across the face. Pain exploded in his cheek and his mouth filled with blood as his teeth cut into his skin. He felt his chair rock to the side, wood creaking under the force, but then it righted itself and Greg breathed a silent sigh of relief.

He turned his head and spat a gob of bloody saliva onto the floor, then turned back.

"That didn't help either."

Hairy Knuckles shouted something at him, gesturing wildly with his hands. Greg shrugged.

With a huff of exasperation, Hairy Knuckles walked around Greg to the door of the room. He shouted something out into the hall, and then marched back in and stood in front of Greg. He regarded Greg with narrowed eyes, apparently studying him. He was not as good at it as the Holmes brothers were, and Greg ignored him.

After a few long minutes, Greg saw Hairy Knuckles straighten up and heard a muffled footstep behind him. Gradually, an old man shuffled into view, bent and wrinkled with age, wearing the same shabby clothes as the others. His hair was snow white but his eyes, when he looked at Greg, were bright and lively.

The old man sat in the other chair and Hairy Knuckles moved to stand beside Greg, looming over him. Greg ignored that as well, keeping his eyes on the old man, who was looking back at him with keen curiosity.

"You speak English?" The old man had an accent so thick he was nearly as difficult to understand as Hairy Knuckles, but Greg managed to figure out what he was saying after a moment.

"Yes."

The old man nodded and closed his eyes, smiling slightly. Greg waited. Eventually, the old man opened his eyes and spoke again.

"Who are you?"

"I am Gregory Lestrade, Detective Inspector with the metropolitan police in London. Who the hell are you?"

The old man shook his head with a frown and waved one hand. "Is too much." He paused. "Who are you?"

"DI Lestrade."

The small smile again. "Yes. I am Andrei."

"Well, Andrei, do you mind telling me what the fuck you think you're doing?" Greg could already tell that he was speaking too fast, using too many words for the old man to understand, but he could not stop. This had been stewing for too long and he needed to say it. "My friend is sick down there, maybe dying, and you've fucking locked us up for days without food, you-" The blow, when it landed, was not a surprise.

Hairy Knuckles used his fist this time, connecting solidly with Greg's temple. Black spots bloomed in his vision and the world wobbled. He did not even realize that his chair was tipping again until it fell and the other side of his head slammed into the stone floor, the chair back smashing into the tender underside of his arm where it wrapped around. He heard himself groan and snapped his mouth shut, shaking his head a little bit to clear it.

Greg heard a soft chuckle and looked up, twisting his neck to see. Andrei was leaning over the table looking down at him, still smiling.

"Be nice," he said in a gentle admonishing tone. Greg spat again.

Hairy Knuckles pulled his chair back upright, growling something roughly into Greg's ear as he did. He sounded angry. Greg did not care.

"He say 'next time worse,'" Andrei said. Greg was not surprised to hear this.

Andrei watched him for another minute, his eyes twinkling in his kindly, grandfatherly face. Greg spat out two more mouthfuls of blood.

"Why are you with the…" Andrei paused, apparently searching for words. "The Strigoi?"

Greg cocked his head to one side. "The what?"

Andrei lifted a finger. This time the blow that fell was a surprise.

Greg's chair stayed upright, but his head rocked sharply to the side as Hairy Knuckles punched him again and he felt something in his neck pop, sending a flare of pain shooting down his back. He clenched his jaw and straightened his head up again, trying not to wince at the pain.

"I don't understand that word. Steeg?"

"Strigoi!" Shouted by Hairy Knuckles, who raised his fist again. Andrei held up a hand, never taking his eyes from Greg, and the fist was lowered.

"The Strigoi. In the… room." Andrei held his hands up beside his head and did an impression of a man hanging from chains. Greg, who had seen that particular sight quite a few times over the last several days, immediately knew who he meant. Hot fierce anger flooded him, that this worthless piece of scum would mock his friend's pain.

"He's my friend."

"Friend?" Andrei's eyes narrowed. "You are Fascinat?"

"I don't-" Greg flinched involuntarily as Andrei raised his finger again, but could not duck the blow. Once again his chair went over, slamming into the already bruised skin of his inner arm. His head cracked against the floor, the skin splitting open. When he was pulled upright, still dazed, he could feel blood trickling down the side of his head.

Andrei sat calmly, watching him as he regained awareness.

"You do his… will?"

"Um… sometimes?" Greg had no idea what the crazy fucker was talking about, but he knew better than to answer "I don't know" again.

There was a muffled yell from outside, so faint that Greg barely heard it, but Andrei's expression went suddenly sharp and hard. He spoke in a low voice to Hairy Knuckles, who moved behind Greg toward the door. As it opened, the muffled yelling got briefly louder. Greg felt his heart beat harder as hope rose up in him.

"You help him?"

Greg pulled his focus back to the insane old man who was watching him from across the table, his eyes no longer twinkly but angry and fierce.

"What?"

"The Strigoi. You help him?"

Greg did not even have to think about his answer. "Yes. Always."

"Fascinat!" Andrei's expression lit with a twisted happiness and he stood, pulling a dull silver knife from his belt. "Then you die!"

Greg started struggling wildly against his bonds as Andrei walked toward him, knife held high. He threw himself to one side, trying to tip the chair and maybe get his arms free of the imposing wood at least, but before he could do it Andrei was beside him.

The knife flashed down and plunged into Greg's shoulder, and he screamed. Andrei dragged the blade across Greg's chest from his shoulder down to his opposite flank. The cut was deep and immediately extremely painful, but not deep enough to kill. Blood swelled from it and ran down his chest and stomach in a jagged sheet, soaking into his shirt.

Andrei stepped back and examined his handiwork, absentmindedly wiping his blade on his ratty trousers. Greg gritted his teeth against the nasty sting across his chest and spared a moment to be baffled by Andrei's actions. The cut hurt like a bitch, yes, and would certainly require stitches to heal properly, but it was not nearly severe enough to kill him. Despite the volume of blood escaping the wound, it was not even severe enough to cause him to bleed to death. Maybe they intended to throw him back in the cell and let him die of infection?

Hairy Knuckles came back in, stepping around Greg without a glance and speaking to Andrei in low, rapid sentences. Greg watched their faces, but he could not glean an idea of what was happening from their expressions. Neither one appeared especially upset, and Greg's heart fell just a bit, his hope of rescue curdling in his chest.

After a fairly lengthy exchange, during which Andrei gestured to him several times with the knife and Greg caught the word "Strigoi" more than once, Hairy Knuckles turned to him and grabbed him underneath the shoulder, hoisting him to his feet with one hand. Greg wobbled, unable to find purchase with his ankles bound together, and his arms scraped roughly over the back of the chair.

"Good bye, Fascinat. I drink your screams like wine when Strigoi kill you," Andrei said softly, grinning and waving the knife in front of Greg.

He dropped into a slow crouch and sliced the bindings around Greg's legs. Greg hissed sharply as the blade bit in to the flesh of one calf while Andrei sawed at the rope, and was answered with a chuckle from Hairy Knuckles, who gave him a little shake.

Andrei stood, making a quiet comment to Hairy Knuckles and waving his hand in a dismissive gesture, already turning away from them. Hairy Knuckles said something harshly and jerked on Greg's shoulder, pulling him out of the room and through the maze of stone corridors.

Greg stumbled and staggered, but Hairy Knuckles kept a tight hold on him and did not allow him to fall. Greg was exhausted, weak from hunger and blood loss, shaking from adrenaline. Blood trickled down his chest and stomach in a steady flow, his shirt already sodden with it and clinging wetly to his body. His face and arm throbbed from the beating he had taken earlier, and another trickle of blood leaked annoyingly down the side of his forehead.

Just before they reached the stairs that led back down to the stone chamber, Greg heard the distinct muffled sound of an explosion at a distance. He jerked backwards, suddenly alert, and Hairy Knuckles nearly lost his grip. The next second he was yanked hard in the direction of the stairs, Hairy Knuckles shaking him roughly and shouting.

Hairy Knuckles pushed Greg down the stairs ahead of him, still holding tightly to his upper arm, and Greg had to concentrate on getting down the steps without pitching forward and rolling the rest of the way to the ground. He kept one ear cocked toward the upper level, listening intently for more sounds, but heard nothing.

They reached the bottom of the staircase more quickly than Greg expected, and he was shoved down the corridor to the bleak dark metal door. On this side, Greg could see a complicated mechanism for sealing and locking the door, but he did not have a chance to study it. Hairy Knuckles spun him around so that he was facing away and held him securely as he worked the complicated lock.

Greg tried to take advantage of his momentary distraction to struggle free, twisting against the grip on his arm and lurching away from the hold, but he could not manage to escape. He was weak, shaking, and Hairy Knuckles had no trouble hanging on to him. He simply lifted his arm, raising Greg onto his tiptoes, and he could not find enough purchase to fight.

He could feel his blood soaking into the waistband of his trousers, and he started to reassess his earlier opinion that he would not bleed to death from the chest wound.

The door opened with a resounding clang. Hairy Knuckles pulled it open just enough to shove Greg through the space and give him one good, hard push into the room, and then slammed it shut behind him. Greg heard the bolt slot home as he staggered forward, trying to catch his balance without falling on his face.

As soon as he could stand, he looked up at Mycroft, who was clearly awake and looking back at him.

"Myc-" Greg started, but he got no further.

Mycroft's eyes were pure, deep, fathomless black, and he was staring at Greg with a fierce intensity, lips parted and nostrils flaring. As their eyes met, Greg felt a shocking chill pass through him from head to foot, almost as if he had stepped through a waterfall. A wave of calm happiness came behind it, washing over Greg and smothering all of his fears and doubts. He dropped to his knees, gazing at Mycroft.

"Gregory." Mycroft's voice was a purr, a beautiful rich tapestry of sound, filling Greg's mind with bliss. He sighed. "Gregory, you're hurt. Come here."

Greg nodded. He could not rise again with his hands bound, so instead he started shuffling forward on his knees. He could feel the searing pain of the wound on his chest pulling as he inched along, his blood pattering down onto the ground beneath him like rain, but the sensations were distant, faint, unable to touch him where he floated in an ocean of calm wonder.

As he neared, Greg saw Mycroft open his mouth and draw in a long shuddering breath. His tongue slipped out and he slowly licked his lips. Then he drew his upper lip back in a silent snarl, and Greg saw that his canines were elongated into sharply pointed fangs. The sight evoked a shudder along his spine and he whimpered.

"That's right Gregory. Come to me now." The sound of Mycroft's voice sent another wave of warm pink bliss rolling over his mind, and Greg smiled softly. He was almost there now, inching forward between Mycroft's spread legs. He could imagine the tender way that Mycroft would stroke his face when he reached his chained hands.

"My Gregory," Mycroft murmured as Greg got closer. Greg found himself stopping without intending to, still just short of Mycroft himself. Hands still chained behind his back, he bowed forward like a supplicant at an altar, lowering his head before Mycroft's face. He felt the soft caress of a tongue against the wound on his scalp and shuddered with the ecstasy of it.

He did not register the clangs and shouts coming from outside the door to the cell as he bowed before Mycroft.

Suddenly a shockingly loud bang rocked the cell and a draft of cold air washed over Greg. Mycroft jerked back and looked up over his shoulder, opening his mouth wide and hissing ferociously, fangs glistening in the light.

Greg froze as Mycroft's attention wavered, and then fell backward onto his heels. The pain in his chest was becoming more insistent, the warm, calm feeling fading. He blinked, confused, and then lifted his eyes to Mycroft again.

A sudden hard jerk to his collar, a disorienting dizzy feeling, and Greg crashed hard onto his back. Immediately he was saturated with shocking cold, and he realized that he was lying on his back actually in the stream that ran through their cell. He rolled his head, dazed, as all of his aches and pains instantly came roaring back, paralyzing his mind with sudden agony. He screamed.

When he managed to get control of himself, his scream trailing off to soft moans of pain, he again became aware of his surroundings. He could hear talking, shouts, the beep of two-way radios. He managed to struggle into a sitting position, and saw two men standing between himself and Mycroft, their backs to him. Greg could not see Mycroft past them, and he was suddenly grateful for it.

He looked up at the taller man in front of him, and took note of the black trousers, huge black coat, head of wild curly hair. Sherlock. Oh thank God. The other man was unfamiliar. He cowered beside Sherlock, visibly trembling, shifting as if to try to step away. Greg could see that Sherlock was holding his arm in a bruising grip, gloved fingertips squeezing deep into the man's flesh. He became aware that Sherlock was speaking, fast and low, presumably to Mycroft. It sounded like he was speaking the same language that Mycroft had been murmuring in his sleep.

Greg tried to say something but coughed instead, curling forward into himself as each spasm caused a stab of pain to shoot through the wound on his chest. When the coughing fit finally subsided, Greg stayed where he was, leaning forward, and whimpered softly.

He could hear Mycroft screaming something in that other language, could hear the clink and rattle of his chains as he struggled. He looked up, but all he could see past Sherlock's legs were flashes of movement.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said, no inflection in his voice. Greg looked up, and Sherlock was looking back at him over his shoulder. His eyes widened and his nostrils flared as he took in Greg's condition. "Fuck." For a moment Greg thought he saw Sherlock's eyes flash bright red, but when he blinked and looked again they were the same strange pale blue-green color as always.

Sherlock turned, pulling the other man along with him, and stepped over to Greg. The sweep of his coat obscured Greg's view of Mycroft as he moved, but he clearly heard Mycroft shout something else and the increase in clanging sounds as he renewed his struggles.

Without preamble, Sherlock grabbed him under the shoulder – the same one that Hairy Knuckles had used to drag him around earlier – and pulled him to his feet without apparent effort, still holding tightly to the other man with his other hand. He spun Greg around and marched him to the door, which was open a tiny sliver.

Sherlock pushed Greg against the crack in the door, which swung open easily, and then pushed him through the opening. Greg fell onto his knees the instant that Sherlock released his grip and then immediately collapsed forward onto his face, clenching his jaw against the wave of agony that passed over him.

"Someone help him!" Sherlock shouted, and Greg looked up to see several people he did not recognize running toward him from down the stone corridor. "And shut this door!" He disappeared back through the gap.

A new voice rose from the room, high and terrified, and Greg knew it was from the strange man that Sherlock was holding. "No, God no, please don't! Someone help me! Oh please, God, please! No!" Then, just mindless screams.

One of the people ran to the door and started to push it shut. Greg rolled onto his side and looked through the opening, and just for the barest second he had a clear view of Mycroft. He was twisting and contorting in his bindings, mouth stretched open inhumanly wide, razor fangs extended, and his eyes were the black of the pit. Then the door clanged shut, blocking Greg's view and dampening the horrible screams from inside the room.

Hands were touching him, rolling him onto his stomach, pulling at the chains around his wrists. They fell away and Greg immediately pulled his hands to his chest, rolling onto his back. Then he looked up into the faces of the unfamiliar people around him, let out one gasping sob, and passed out.

* * *

I am moving this week, so it's possible that the next two chapters will be delayed a bit. On the other hand, I'm ecstatically happy in my new house, so you know, there's that. Sorry for the (possible) delay!


	4. Chapter 4

One million thanks again to my fantastic beta reader and brit-picker DancingGrimm! I'm just hopelessly American, and without her help this story would have been so much clunkier and less logical, in addition to having been super American. Thank you so much, my dear friend!

* * *

Nearly two weeks later, Greg was living in a state of quiet terror.

He was waiting for the other shoe to drop, as he knew it had to eventually. Sometimes he thought it would be better if it happened quickly, in order to escape the gnawing, anxious tension that ate at him each day, but then he would think that living with fear was better than not living at all, which seemed like a distinct possibility in the near future.

Physically he was doing very well, the visible marks of his time in Andrei's tender care fading, most nearly gone aside from the cut across his chest. Mentally he was finding it much more difficult to move on.

He had not regained consciousness for several days following the rescue, and when he did he found himself in an unfamiliar hospital room. Once he managed to get the attention of a doctor, he learned that he was in a hospital in the city of Carlisle, just south of the Scottish border. He also learned that he had twenty-six stitches in his chest, a broken nose, minor abrasions, bruising and lacerations all over his body, and a suspected concussion.

Greg had accepted this information calmly, still too dazed to think much beyond the fact that he was safe, no longer held at the whims of madmen. Then he had asked the doctor about Mycroft.

The doctor had no idea who he was talking about. Greg had not come into the hospital with anyone else, and had had no visitors. In fact, the doctor did not know who had brought Greg to the hospital in the first place, and there was no record of it.

This information was not accepted so calmly, although Greg managed to keep his reaction – a deep flare of panic – to himself. He demanded his mobile phone from the doctor with only a hint of urgency, at which point he was informed that he did not arrive with one. His wallet was still on him, luckily, which is how the medical staff learned his name.

Greg was confused and frightened by this, but still tried not to let it show. Instead he asked for a hospital phone, and was quickly provided with one. Unfortunately, thanks to the ability to save numbers in his mobile, the only phone numbers Greg knew by heart anymore were his ex-wife's, which he had no interest in calling now or ever, and the non-emergency line to the Met.

So he called the Met. He had no trouble getting through, and was quickly transferred to Sally's desk phone. He braced himself for anger, confusion, worry, but her voice when she answered was about as friendly as Sally ever got.

It was at that point he learned that he had requested and been granted emergency family leave nearly a week ago, and that everyone at the Met was under the impression that he was in France caring for his mother, who was ill. Greg managed to recover from his shock in time to agree and make up a quick lie about the fact that his mother was improving, and that he should be able to return to work soon. Sally accepted this without question, and Greg hung up the phone.

One more day in the hospital, which Greg spent thinking back about everything he remembered from his incarceration and trying to reconcile it with the reality he found upon waking, and he was free to leave. He caught a train back to London and was in his own flat before bedtime.

His mobile was waiting innocently on the doormat when he arrived.

The next week Greg spent locked in his flat, eating food from tins and staring blankly at the telly as it droned on. Initially, he was too confused to do much more than think about the events of the kidnapping. He knew that he should be most concerned about his captors, but he barely spared them a single minute of consideration. Instead, his thoughts turned over and over again to what he had seen in his final moments in the dungeon. And as hard as he tried to fight the idea that was forming in his head, in the end he could not deny it.

Mycroft was not human.

The way he had looked, there in the cell, twisted and stretched out and ravenous, with his pure black eyes and his… Jesus, his fucking _fangs_, as he writhed and fought to escape his chains. Greg had been tired and hungry and hurting, but he knew what he saw. And what he saw was a nightmare from a horror film, which happened to be wearing Mycroft's face.

Gradually, Greg's thoughts moved on to other strange things that had happened during the course of the kidnapping. He thought about Mycroft's reaction to the cuffs, the way he had lunged at Greg that one time when he woke him, the first time Greg saw his eyes turn black. He remembered some of the strange things that Mycroft had said when he was delirious. "The silver burns", he had said. And "I need blood."

His fourth day back, Greg opened up his laptop computer and did an internet search for the word "Strigoi". Once he figured out how to spell it, he learned that the word was Romanian in origin, which likely meant that the kidnappers were as well. He also found out that it translated to "undead spirits" and was sometimes used to mean "vampires". He closed his laptop quickly after coming across that little tidbit, and went to try to watch an episode of _Top Gear_ instead. Somehow, he could not concentrate.

The next day, he searched for "Fascinat", but could not find anything.

A day after that, he started searching for vampire mythology. The internet was both a help and a hindrance for such a search, as it turned out. A help because there was an incredible wealth of information available at his fingertips, and a hindrance because most of it was obvious bullshit, none of it was provided by any kind of reputable source, and some of it was obviously stolen or adapted from other sources until it was just a big confusing jumble of conflicting theories and misinformation.

On the other hand, it was not as if he was going to find a conveniently annotated vampire textbook, was it? So Greg squared his shoulders and spent days slogging through the crap, trying to put together a realistic picture of how such a thing as a vampire might possibly really exist, and then to reconcile that idea with the Mycroft Holmes he had been growing… fond of, over these past few years.

But as Greg's days passed in a haze of fear and doubt and the ever-growing certainly that he was not yet through with the consequences of this situation, it was his nights that quickly became the most disturbing part of the whole experience.

The first few nights, Greg had woken in a sweat, heart pounding and face wet with tears, from horrible dreams that he forgot instantly upon waking. He stayed up the rest of the night each time, lights on and back pressed firmly against the headboard of his bed, letting the flickering light of the muted telly wash over him.

But then, after several short, restless nights, the dreams changed.

Greg dreamt of the cell, and the dark, and Mycroft. In the dream he was afraid, but he stood his ground. Mycroft was not bound, as he had been in real life, and was whole and uninjured. He stalked toward Greg with the smooth confidence of a predator, looking him up and down, eyeing his body hungrily. Greg stood frozen, heat rising in his stomach as Mycroft examined him.

He let Mycroft walk around him, held himself still as Mycroft stepped up to his back, long aristocratic hands reaching around to rest on his chest. He did not move as a voice spoke directly into his ear, whispering twisted promises and seductive threats, tempting him, claiming him, owning him. And then those slim strong fingers moved up his chest, gripping his throat and tipping his head to the side.

The first time, Greg jerked awake just before dawn, panting and gasping, heart pounding in his chest, sticky with his own semen. He lay there, letting the familiar space of his bedroom help soothe his nerves, adrift in the afterglow of arousal, heightened and sweetened by the fear that still washed through him at the thought of Mycroft. Then it had sunk in, suddenly, what he had been dreaming about, what he had just done, and Greg flew out of his bed and into the bathroom to wash away all evidence of his shameful reaction.

By day his research progressed gradually, until after nearly a full week of study he was able to build up a fairly solid theory on exactly what Mycroft might be, if not human. It helped that he was able to refine his searches using details he had observed during their time in the dungeon. Terms such as "silver" and "running water" were very helpful. The information he had found, however, was terrifying.

By night, Greg continued to dream of Mycroft. Sometimes they were in the cell or another stone chamber, sometimes Greg's flat, and once in the middle of the forest. Each time Greg stood still and let Mycroft approach him, touch him. Take him. And each time Greg woke riding a wave of arousal, flush with pleasure, his own come dripping from his skin.

So it was that, on the Friday evening nearly two weeks after he had been rescued from the dungeon, Greg was exhausted. The constant fear of what Mycroft might do was wearing on him, and the shame from his nocturnal adventures was growing with every night that passed. Something had to be done.

Greg considered, but try as he might he could only think of one possible course of action that would solve his problem. Unfortunately, it was fairly likely that the solution would involve his death, possibly by exsanguination. But he could not come up with a single other option that might work; he would have to call Mycroft and ask for a meeting. Maybe he could insist on meeting somewhere public, for safety. Greg nodded to himself. Tomorrow; he would call tomorrow.

Having decided on a plan, even a possibly suicidal one, Greg felt much better. He decided to have a few beers and watch an old favorite before going to bed, in case the alcohol helped him sleep better. Hopefully without dreaming.

Greg selected a Doctor Who DVD and slid it in to the player before heading into the kitchen to get himself a beer. He popped the lid off the bottle and took a deep swig, listening to the familiar Doctor Who theme music as the DVD loaded the menu screen, and then contemplated the contents of his fridge. Finding nothing but more beer and a lonely jar of mustard, he decided to order some take-away and turned to go back into the living room.

Mycroft Holmes was standing beside the sofa.

"Fucking hell!" Greg flinched back, beer bottle falling from suddenly nerveless fingers. Mycroft tilted his head slightly to one side, his expression smooth. He looked dapper and urbane in a three-piece suit, as if he had just stepped out of a tailor's and was on his way to a formal dinner. In short, he looked perfectly normal.

"Detective Inspector."

"I… how…," Greg stammered, looking wildly around the room in an attempt to figure out where the fuck Mycroft had come from. Everything looked the same. From where he stood, he could even see that the bolt was still thrown on the front door.

"Shouldn't you get that?" Mycroft gestured toward Greg's feet, where a puddle of beer was gradually spreading out. Greg looked down, still blinking with shock, and then looked back at Mycroft.

"Right, yeah."

Mechanically, Greg picked up the bottle and then turned back into the kitchen to grab a tea towel from the counter. When he turned back, Mycroft was standing in the same place, still looking at him impassively. Greg dropped the towel on the wet patch and poked at it a few times with one toe. Mycroft watched with a tiny smile on his lips.

"How are you feeling, Detective Inspector?"

Greg stared at Mycroft for another moment, and then gave himself a shake. Right. Apparently they were going to pretend that everything was normal, as if Mycroft had not just appeared in Greg's flat by magic, as if he had not morphed into some kind of demon creature in front of Greg's very eyes after days spent locked in a dungeon together.

Fine then. Fuck it. Greg could play pretend with the best of them.

"Oh, much better, thanks," he said, offering Mycroft a large false grin. "Come in, by the way. Can I get you anything? I have beer, and water from the tap." He went back into his kitchen and opened the fridge, grabbing himself another beer to make up for the one currently soaking into the rug, and then waited for Mycroft's answer.

Now it was Mycroft's turn to look nonplussed. He paused as Greg went back into the kitchen, only responding when he realized that Greg was waiting for him. "Nothing for me, thank you."

"Suit yourself." Greg popped the top from the bottle and took a deep swig before moving back out into the living room. "Please, have a seat," he added, making a sweeping gesture toward the room as he dropped onto the sofa.

Mycroft hesitated, and then took a seat on the single armchair Greg possessed, a hideous huge orange and brown monstrosity that he kept because it was also extremely comfortable. Mycroft's posture was, as always, upright and almost prim as he tried to perch on the edge of the cushion. Greg noticed that he did not have his umbrella, and wondered where it was. Somehow, Mycroft looked naked without it. Greg found himself snorting in genuine amusement.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Greg's reaction, and then lifted his chin. Greg snorted again at the sight of Mycroft Holmes in his elegant suit trying to look supercilious while balancing on that awful squashy chair, and then had to fight down the rising giggle-fit he could feel creeping up his throat. If he started laughing now he was pretty sure he would have a full-blown bout of hysteria before he could get himself under control again.

"Detective Inspector, I would like to be frank with you."

Greg swallowed against the laughter that surged again at that statement. Frank. Yes. "That would be a nice change."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed and he cleared his throat. Greg recognized it as a different throat clear from the one he used when he wanted to ask a favor, and then was amused at himself for being able to tell the difference.

"Indeed. Firstly, you should know my memory of the final period of our kidnapping is spotty. The last memory of any clarity that I retain is from the time that you attempted to wake me from a nightmare and then splashed water at me because I attacked you. However, I remember fragments after that, and of course I have been informed of some of the circumstances."

"Informed?" Who could possibly have informed him? Greg was the only other person there, and he certainly had not mentioned it to anyone.

"Sherlock made some deductions based on the circumstances in which he found us, and I was able to get access to your medical records after your treatment in the hospital." Greg felt a brief surge of anger at that, but he tried to suppress it. He already knew that Mycroft had that sort of power, even though this was the first time the other man had ever admitted it out loud.

"Right. So, what's your point?" Perhaps he had not suppressed his anger as well as he thought.

Mycroft blinked, looking slightly taken aback, though Greg got the distinct impression that it was an act. "I thought I should come by and see whether you had any additional questions I could answer, to help set your mind at ease about the whole experience."

"You what?"

"I said-"

"No, I heard you." Greg was suddenly furious, the dull terror he had been feeling since Mycroft's miraculous appearance in his living room completely swallowed up by the heat of his rage. Just stopping by, was he, to answer any of Greg's questions? "How very generous of you, Mycroft, to stop by. Just passing through, were you? On your way home from work, maybe, and thought you'd just magically fucking pop up in the middle of my flat, to set my mind 'at ease'? How nice that you stopped by with no ulterior motives whatsoever."

"Detective Inspector-"

"Especially after the way you left me to wake up alone in a hospital with no explanation and no contact, and then left me to stew on everything that happened for two weeks. Very caring move, there. Much appreciated."

"Detective-"

"Why are you really here, Mycroft?" Greg cut him off again. A flicker of annoyance flashed across Mycroft's face at the interruption, and Greg crowed inside even as a voice in the back of his mind shouted at him to stop antagonizing the potentially bloodthirsty monster. "Are you here to find out how much I know, how much I suspect? How much I saw? Are you trying to figure out if you have to shut me up?"

Mycroft's face went suddenly, terrifyingly blank as Greg spoke, his eyes locked on Greg's and never wavering. Greg snapped his mouth shut, realizing that in his anger he had said more than he intended to. He froze, looking back at Mycroft, and waited to see whether he had said too much.

"Well then, Detective Inspector, what did you see?" Mycroft finally asked, his face still a blank mask. The sight of him, looking so emotionless and dead, effectively snuffed out the spark of Greg's anger, and some the terror he was feeling earlier came rushing back.

"I saw… I saw…." Shit, this was hard. It was one thing to entertain the idea in his head, but quite another to sit in a well-lit room and talk about his theories with another person, especially Mycroft. How do you look someone in the eye and tell them you think they might be a mythical monster? "I saw you. I saw you with your eyes all solid black. Twice. And then, just when we were being rescued, I saw you with… well, with huge fangs instead of teeth. And the way you were moving, the way you stretched your mouth open, it wasn't…" _human_ was what Greg wanted to say, but he could not bring himself to finish the sentence.

"Is that all?" Mycroft sounded bored, and he still wore that blank look.

"No." Greg had a sudden urge to prove that he was correct and not crazy, here in the face of Mycroft's apparent disbelief. "There's also the fucking disappearing act you do. I saw it the first time right before we got kidnapped, back in the warehouse, and then you did it again just now when you showed up. For fuck's sake, the door is still locked! What the hell, Mycroft? Do you think I'm blind, or just stupid?"

Mycroft winced visibly at that, his eyes squeezing shut for just a second before he wiped his face of all expression and looked back at Greg, but it was enough. The blank look was an act, then, something Mycroft was doing to avoid giving away his real feelings. It felt like confirmation to Greg, an acknowledgment that he was not losing his mind.

He probably should not be happy to be correct, this time, but he could not help the brief burst of relief he felt to know that he was not totally nuts for thinking the things he was thinking.

"And then there's this." Greg stood and walked around the sofa to his desk, making no effort to avoid Mycroft as he passed. What would be the point? He grabbed a stack of printed pages from the desk and turned, only to jump back in shock. Mycroft was standing right behind him, only a few feet away. Shit! Greg had not even heard him move. He swallowed hard and handed the papers to Mycroft, who took them and started to read without moving.

Their positions put Greg beside his desk where it was pushed into the corner of the living room, his back to the wall. Mycroft stood casually, his attention apparently totally focused on the papers he held, but he was between Greg and the rest of the room, effectively cornering him. Greg would have to push past Mycroft to go anywhere. He swallowed again and stood still, unconsciously drawing back his shoulders and lifting his chin as he held his ground.

"You got all this from the internet?" Mycroft did not raise his eyes, but Greg nodded anyway. The pages contained all the information he had been able to sift out of his extensive internet searches. Details about vampires, Strigoi, silver, running water, drinking blood. Everything Greg had found that seemed even remotely applicable to what he observed in Mycroft, both during their incarceration and from the time before, when Greg knew him as nothing more or less than Sherlock's older brother and a deceptively high-ranking member of the British government.

"Remarkable." Mycroft ruffled the pages once more with his fingers and then raised his eyes to look at Greg. "Filled with misinformation, of course; partial truths and complete fabrications, but remarkable nonetheless. I am impressed, Detective Inspector."

"Yeah, well, that's why I've got the badge."

Mycroft's lips curved up in a little smirk, and then his face went blank again. "Unfortunately, this confirms my fears." Greg's blood immediately turned to ice water. "You saw quite a bit, and I was indiscreet enough in my delirium to provide you with a significant amount of information. I was hoping to avoid this, but…" Mycroft trailed off, shaking his head. Greg's mouth went dry and he could feel his pulse hammering in his fingertips, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.

Mycroft took a step forward, gliding with serpentine grace, and Greg took a hasty step back. Another step and Greg's heel banged against the wall, stopping him short. Mycroft did not hesitate, moving smoothly forward until he was inches from where Greg was pressed back against the wall, hands braced on either side of his head.

Greg stared at him, unable to look away even as he waited for Mycroft to strike, to kill him and the threat he represented with his knowledge, incomplete though it may be. He knew that he should be fighting, struggling to get away, begging for Mycroft to spare his life, but he could do none of those things. Even as his terror rose to a fever pitch, he could not help but be fascinated by the creature in front of him. He wanted to know how it felt, even if just for a moment, to be held in Mycroft's power. To be completely at his mercy.

Shit, maybe he was crazy after all.

Mycroft watched him, unmoving, for a long beat. Then his eyes slid shut and he leaned forward, his nose ghosting along Greg's cheek.

"I can smell your fear, you know. I can hear your heart pounding, your blood pulsing in your veins." Greg shivered, the smooth voice pulling an answering wave of heat from his body. This was so much like his dreams that he could not have stopped his body from responding, even if he had wanted to. "There's no need to be afraid. I'll make this completely painless for you, I promise."

Greg could feel Mycroft's breath puffing along his jaw. He parted his lips, breath coming faster as swells of arousal pulsed through him.

"I do regret this, you know," Mycroft murmured. And then, in a voice so soft Greg almost did not hear him, filled with an aching longing that was nearly painful, "Oh Gregory, what you do to me," as his lips trailed gently along the column of Greg's throat.

Greg could not stop the soft gasp that escaped his mouth at the feeling, and without thinking he lifted his chin, baring more of his throat to Mycroft.

Mycroft froze, holding perfectly still, breath puffing softly against Greg's neck. Greg had a long second to wonder whether this was it for him, the spectacular end to his mediocre and somewhat unremarkable life. To his surprise, the only regrets he found in himself at the thought were for the things he had never done, those things he had put off or avoided for fear of the consequences. He closed his eyes and drew one last long, deep breath, and deliberately let his head fall back against the wall, throat completely exposed.

Mycroft made a sound deep in his chest, a low hum that was nearly a purr, and surged forward until his entire body was pressed along the length of Greg's, forcing him back hard into the wall. Greg gasped again as he felt the wet drag of Mycroft's tongue up the length of his neck, and the next second Mycroft's mouth was covering his, tongue thrusting between his lips in a bruising kiss.

Greg moaned at the onslaught and let his mouth come open, his own tongue meeting Mycroft's as he deepened the kiss. He brought his hands up and wrapped them around Mycroft's body, pulling him in, squeezing him closer, and Mycroft broke from the kiss with a ragged cry.

He pulled his head back, looking Greg full in the face, and Greg was somewhat surprised to see that his eyes were their typical blue color, pupils hugely dilated. He was panting, lips slightly parted, his perfect hair all disheveled. He looked stunning.

Mycroft examined him silently, and he must have seen what he was looking for in Greg's face because after a moment he moved one hand to rest gently on back of Greg's neck and leaned forward, bringing their lips together in another kiss. This one was entirely different from the first, a slow sweet press of lips. Greg watched Mycroft's eyes flutter shut before his own fell closed, and he let himself get lost in the feeling of firm lips sliding softly along his own.

Greg tilted his head to the side and parted his lips, catching Mycroft's between them and suckling softly before letting his tongue trace the seam of Mycroft's mouth. Mycroft moaned, his body surging against Greg's at the touch, letting Greg push his tongue into the warm cavern of his mouth.

Greg squeezed Mycroft to him again, thrusting his tongue forward, drinking in the taste of tobacco and spices that lingered on Mycroft's breath. The side of his tongue scraped against something sharp, and he suddenly realized that it was a fang, that he was feeling Mycroft's fucking fangs on his tongue as they kissed against the wall. The thought sent a bolt of arousal slamming through him, and Greg could not stop himself from bucking his hips forward with a rough moan.

The move brought his aching erection into sudden direct contact with the equally hard length of Mycroft's, and Greg broke the kiss to throw his head back with a sharp hiss. Instantly, Mycroft dropped his head to bury his face in Greg's neck, sucking and nipping and _fuck_ Greg could feel them, feel his fangs trailing along the skin but not breaking it. He whimpered, bucking against Mycroft again.

Mycroft tore his head away and grunted as Greg thrust against him. He grabbed Greg's thigh with one hand and lifted his leg almost effortlessly, hooking it over his hip. The move spread Greg's thighs wider, and Mycroft wasted no time pressing in, grinding their cocks together with steady hard thrusts. Greg whimpered again and dropped one hand to clutch at Mycroft's arse.

The friction and pressure were incredible, even through layers of clothes, and Greg could not stop the steady flow of little high-pitched grunts from escaping his throat as Mycroft continued to push against him. He used his free hand to grab Mycroft by the hair and drag their mouths together again, immediately licking into Mycroft's mouth. Again, he felt the scrape of fang against the side of his tongue, and he chased the feeling. As his tongue dragged deliberately along the sharp curved length of one fang, Mycroft let out a deep loud moan and his hips stuttered against Greg's.

Mycroft pulled his head back, panting, and leaned around to Greg's ear. He traced the shell with his tongue before sucking the lobe into his mouth and nipping it gently with one fang. Shocks of sensation pounded through Greg, a throbbing line of electric pleasure from his ear directly to his straining cock where Mycroft was steadily pushing against him, and he cried out, hand squeezing hard on Mycroft's arse.

"I've tasted your blood, Gregory," Mycroft panted directly into his ear in a rough whisper. Greg shivered and moaned, bucking against Mycroft involuntarily. He did not know why something like that should turn him on so much, but it did; oh God, it did. "Do you remember? You came to me on your knees, and I licked it directly from your skin." Mycroft paused to suck in a sharp breath, the hand on the back of Greg's neck squeezing suddenly tight. "You tasted like heaven." He nipped Greg's ear again.

"Oh fuck." Greg threw his head back, arching against Mycroft's taut body, grinding up against him. The pleasure was rolling through him now; Mycroft's words, the constant dragging friction, and _oh God_ the sensation of his fangs scraping along Greg's flesh combined to push him to new heights of bliss. He could feel his balls drawing up, the coils of pleasure tightening in his abdomen as he rutted harder up against Mycroft.

"Yes, Gregory," Mycroft hummed into his ear. He tightened his grip on Greg's neck, blunt fingernails biting into the skin, and placed a line of sucking kisses along his jaw. When their lips met, Mycroft sucked Greg's lower lip into his mouth and bit, and Greg felt the tips of his fangs press sharply against the tender skin.

That was all it took for Greg, and his orgasm hit him with sudden force. Greg jerked his head back involuntarily as the wave of pleasure broke over him, and did not notice Mycroft's sharp hiss of indrawn breath. Then he dropped his head down to Mycroft's neck and, beyond though, bit down hard on the firm flesh as he bucked his hips up and held there, squeezing Mycroft against him by the grip on his arse and grinding into the pressure as he rode out his orgasm.

"Oh Gregory, oh, oh yes!" Mycroft cried out, and suddenly shuddered in his arms. He pressed the side of his head against Greg's hard enough to hurt, a dull ache that Greg barely noticed as he drifted on the high of his orgasm, but kept his face turned away, his mouth clear of Greg's skin as he bucked and twitched.

Greg fell still, feeling boneless, grateful for the wall behind him, holding him up. Mycroft collapsed against him for a too-brief moment before straightening up. He stepped back, looking down, and attempted to adjust his jacket and waistcoat, although they were obviously rumpled beyond the ability of casual efforts to repair. The sight made Greg giggle.

Mycroft looked up sharply, scanning his expression carefully before smiling a gentle smile at what he saw. Greg grinned back, feeling suddenly giddy and light, even though he still had no idea whether he was about to die. But shit, if Mycroft chose to kill him now at least he would die with one less regret. He grinned wider, and felt a little sharp pull in his lip. Dragging his tongue across it, he found a tiny cut in the flesh inside his lip. He looked up to see Mycroft lick his own lips, watching him intently.

"Well," Mycroft finally said, after regarding him in silence for a moment, "that was… unexpected."

"Yeah." Greg finally stood up, wincing uncomfortably when his wet pants stuck to his skin as he moved. "Do you want to sit down?"

Mycroft hesitated, looking down and to the side in a way that suddenly reminded Greg sharply of the dungeon. It was his "I want to ask for something but I don't want to be a bother" expression.

"What do you need?" Greg could not have kept the fondness out of his voice if he tried.

"I was hoping I could use your bathroom. I'm a bit… sticky."

"Right. Of course. It's just through there." He pointed down the hall. "Actually, speaking of that, I think I'll duck into my bedroom and change."

Mycroft nodded and turned, disappearing into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him. Greg followed him down the hall and went into the bedroom, quickly changing into a pair of soft striped grey pajama bottoms and an old faded blue t-shirt. He figured that no matter how the rest of this evening played out, he might as well be comfortable.

As he changed, he checked the wound on his chest, but despite a few twinges it had survived the rough treatment with no apparent damage. He was about due to have the stitches removed, anyway, so he supposed it must be pretty much healed.

Greg made it back to the living room before Mycroft. He considered his beer for a moment, sitting on the coffee table where he left it, but for some reason this no longer seemed like a night for beer. Instead he went into the kitchen and pulled out his old kettle. He rinsed it off and was filling it with water when Mycroft emerged from the bathroom, looking almost perfectly put together once more. Even his clothes were less wrinkled. Greg had no idea how he did that.

"Want some tea?" Greg called out as soon as Mycroft came back to the living room. "No milk, but there's sugar. And probably some of that dry powdered coffee creamer, in a pinch," he added, specifically to enjoy the shudder of revulsion that passed through Mycroft at the mention of powdered creamer.

"Tea would be lovely, no 'creamer', thank you." Greg could actually hear the air quotes Mycroft put around the word "creamer" as he spoke. He snickered to himself.

"No problem. Make yourself at home, I'll be out in a few." Greg spent a minute washing two mugs and finding his stash of tea, which he seldom made for himself. He kept having to suppress the urge to hum as he moved through the kitchen, which made no sense. Nothing had been resolved, and it was possible that Mycroft might still decide to kill him any minute, but for some reason the tension he was feeling earlier had completely dissipated. Instead, he felt calm and relaxed, and he did not think it could all be attributed to the orgasm.

Greg finished getting his supplies together just as the water boiled, and he poured it into the mugs before carrying them out to the living room, balancing the sugar bowl against his chest with one arm. He awkwardly lowered them to the table, splashing a bit of tea from one mug as they clunked down on the tabletop.

"Thank you," Mycroft said with an impressive lack of sarcasm when Greg pushed one chipped mug in his direction. He was seated on the sofa this time, looking noticeably more relaxed. Greg took a seat beside him without hesitating, and was rewarded with a brief flicker of pleased surprise on Mycroft's face. He smiled.

"Well, so I suppose we should talk about this," Greg said, breaking the silence before it could become too uncomfortable.

"Yes, I imagine so."

"Right."

"Mmm."

Silence fell again as Greg tried to figure out where to start. Mycroft seemed to be having the same problem. Finally, Greg gave a mental shrug and decided to just go for it.

"So, you really are a vampire then."

"What?" Mycroft looked startled.

"I mean, for a while I was worried that I was going crazy or something. It seems pretty nuts, doesn't it? I thought I saw some weird stuff, but we were locked up and hungry and scared," he paused and gave a little grimace, "or at least I was scared. And honestly, who believes in vampires these days?"

"In that case, I suppose I can confirm that you are not crazy." Mycroft was not smiling yet, but he looked slightly less tense. Greg decided to declare that a minor victory.

"Good to know, thanks. And hey, you haven't killed me yet, so I guess everything's going pretty well so far." Greg meant it as a joke, although after the comment left his mouth he thought that maybe he should not have said it. No reason to bring something like that up now.

"What?" The word was bitten off, sharp and short, accompanied by the sudden bang of Mycroft's mug slamming down on the coffee table. Greg jerked his gaze back around and found Mycroft looking at him, eyes intent and face wearing that same terrible blank expression he had when he first arrived. Greg felt a cold chill wash through him.

"Uh… nothing. Sorry. I was… I was just making a joke." Greg's voice sounded weak to his own ears. He saw Mycroft's eyes flare wide.

"A joke."

"Well, yeah." Greg swallowed, trying to bring some strength back to his voice. "I don't think you're going to kill me now, but, well, you could, right? And I mean, you sort of threatened to earlier, didn't you?"

"I did _what_?" Mycroft sounded incredulous. Greg was feeling a bit confused himself.

"When you… you first backed me up against the wall? You told me you regretted it, but that you'd make it painless?"

"I… oh. Oh God." The blank mask was gone, and Mycroft looked stricken. He stood quickly, turning to face Greg where he still sat on the sofa. "I was not threatening to kill you." He brought both hands up and scrubbed them across his face. "I was going to erase your memory."

"You… " Greg trailed off, replaying the incident in his mind. Had Mycroft ever actually said anything about killing him? He could not remember.

"Is that… is that what it was about?" Mycroft indicated the corner of the room by Greg's desk with his chin. "Were you trying to prevent me from killing you? Is that why you…" he trailed off, staring at Greg with an expression of desolation so acute it hurt.

Greg froze, completely unable to respond. He had never seen Mycroft look so… so _emotional._ Even during their kidnapping, he had never seemed so open and vulnerable. The sight of it sent something bright and shivery curling around his heart, and Greg could do nothing but take in a deep breath as he suddenly became aware of exactly how much he might mean to Mycroft. And how much Mycroft might mean to him.

Unfortunately, Mycroft seemed to interpret his silence as guilt. He drew himself up, his expression going hard by visible degrees.

"Detective Inspector, I must go. I am sorry to have intruded on your time. We can discuss this further at a later date, and I will count on your discretion until then."

And as Greg watched, Mycroft's form started to waver in front of him, breaking into ripples and shards like a reflection in a disturbed pool of water, until he had entirely vanished.


	5. Chapter 5

It's finally done! Sorry for the delay, guys, and thanks for all the encouraging comments! I hope the length of this chapter helps make up for the slow posting.

Also, special super extra thanks to my lovely beta reader, DancingGrimm, who was able to get this monster of a chapter back to me in less than 6 hours. You are fabulous, my dear!

* * *

"Wait!" Suddenly desperate, Greg lunged forward, grabbing blindly at the place where Mycroft had been standing. His fingers brushed against soft fabric and he lurched forward again, closing his hand around what was possibly the edge of Mycroft's jacket, trying to ignore the way that his hand seemed to have disappeared from the end of his arm. His fingertips pressed against cool silk and soft cotton as he tightened his grip and yanked, hard.

Again he saw Mycroft's distorted broken form for a moment as he staggered against the pull, letting out a little "oomf" sound when his knee knocked against the coffee table. Greg yanked again and suddenly Mycroft was completely, perfectly visible, just as he collapsed sideways onto the sofa beside where Greg was kneeling.

"Release me this second!"

"Shut up and listen!" Greg shouted back, relinquishing his hold on Mycroft's jacket only long enough to place both hands on his shoulders and squeeze. He pulled Mycroft around and leaned forward until their faces were only inches apart. Mycroft looked back, apparently frozen, face giving nothing away.

"Mycroft, I really did think you were going to kill me. I'm sorry, but I did. The way you cornered me, the things you were saying, it sounded like I was about to die." Mycroft opened his mouth, but Greg did not pause. "But I didn't do what I did because I thought it would save me. Honestly, that never even crossed my mind."

Now Greg paused, but Mycroft's mouth had snapped shut and he did not speak. He was watching Greg with unwavering focus, the blank mask slipping to reveal a just a hint of emotion in his eyes. After a moment, Greg continued.

"I did it because I wanted to, and because I thought that if I was going to die anyway I might as well have one less regret."

Mycroft's eyes widened, and he swallowed twice before speaking. "You wanted to?"

"God yes." Slowly, slowly, Greg leaned forward, giving Mycroft time to protest. When he did not, Greg carefully pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. Mycroft stayed frozen for a brief second and then melted into the kiss, all the tension draining from his body as if someone had pulled a plug.

Greg broke the kiss after a short time and pulled back, smiling softly. Mycroft blinked up at him and then relaxed, boneless, into the sofa, rolling back into a proper sitting position and letting his head fall back onto the cushion. Greg scooted to sit beside him, clasping Mycroft's hand in his. He nudged him with his shoulder, and Mycroft raised his head, looking down first at their joined hands before turning to face Greg.

"Gregory, I… I am pleased to hear that you feel that way." He paused. "And I believe I should tell you that I feel the same."

"Yeah, I kind of figured." He rubbed Mycroft's thumb with his and delighted at the tiny shudder that passed through the other man.

They sat in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, and Greg could not help but reflect on the way that everything in his life had changed in such a short time. Only yesterday he had been terrified, half convinced he was going to be killed for discovering Mycroft's secret and half convinced he was going insane, and in either case dreaming nightly of being taken by the man in every conceivable way. Now here he sat, beside a confirmed vampire who apparently held a fairly significant amount of affection for him, suddenly more concerned for their possible relationship than his own life.

A movement from Mycroft startled him, but he was only leaning forward to pick his mug up from the table. He sipped it gingerly and then pulled the mug quickly away from his mouth with a grimace.

"Has it gone cold? I could make some more." Greg stopped and thought for a moment. "Oh hell, do you even drink tea, or were you just being polite? I forgot to ask before."

"No Gregory, I drink tea and eat food, just as you do. I just require, shall we say, some additional nutrition from a very specific source in order to stay healthy." Greg could not suppress a shiver at the reminder, a ribbon of heat curling low in his stomach. Mycroft watched him with one eyebrow raised, and Greg felt himself blushing.

"Um… in that case, I was just about to order some take-away when you… showed up. Want to stay for dinner?" Greg did not notice the implications of his phrasing until the question was out of his mouth. Mycroft arched his eyebrow further.

"Sounds delicious," he murmured. Greg blushed harder.

"Right. How about Thai then? There's a great place just down the street that delivers."

"As you please." Mycroft settled back on the sofa as Greg went into the kitchen to grab his mobile and place the order. Once food was on the way Greg went back to the sofa, sitting down a few feet from Mycroft. He brought one knee up and twisted to face the other man, who was watching him calmly.

"So I was wondering, is it alright if I ask you about… you know, stuff?"

"You can ask. I should warn you that I have not spoken of my… condition in quite some time. In this modern world of recording devices, it seems prudent that I exercise caution."

"Would you prefer not to talk about it?" Greg was disappointed. He had been looking forward to finding out more about Mycroft, and vampires in general, once he discovered that he was not going to be summarily killed for the knowledge.

"Oh no, it's quite all right. I can state with absolute certainly that there are no recording devices in your flat at this time. But I might find it difficult to discuss some aspects, as a result of my long history of reticence."

"Oh, well, great then." Greg tried to be annoyed at the comment about recording devices, but found he could not. He was too pleased to have Mycroft here, apparently content to sit and talk with him. He did file away the phrase "at this time" for future consideration, though. "I wanted to ask about the disappearing thing that you do. I've never seen anything like it. What is that?"

"It's one of my Talents; we call it Veiling. Essentially I can generate an energy field that causes light to bend around me, making me appear invisible to others."

"Oh wow. That's… that's brilliant, actually."

"Is it?" Mycroft looked puzzled. Greg found that far more endearing than he thought he should.

"Yeah, definitely." Greg resisted the urge to wink at Mycroft, who still looked confused. "So, you said that's one of your talents. What else can you do?"

"I can…," Mycroft paused and scratched at his chin, which Greg recognized as an indication that he was uncomfortable. God, when had he become so familiar with Mycroft's mannerisms? "I can conceal memories, cloud them, make people forget things."

"Right." Greg looked away and swallowed. "You said you were going to do that to me."

"Gregory." The earnestness in Mycroft's voice made him turn back, unable to resist the pull of Mycroft showing genuine emotions. Mycroft clasped both hands around one of his, holding gently. "I was going to do it for your safety, because possessing this knowledge is dangerous to you as much as it is to me. And also… well, because it never occurred to me that you would find it… appealing. I assumed you would be terrified, knowing what I am, that we exist. I thought you would be glad to be rid of those memories."

"You know, I probably should be scared. I was, actually, at first. But, well, I don't know," Greg shrugged, dropping his eyes. "I mean, it's scary to think about vampires being real, but when it's _you_, it's not the same. You're not just some random Dracula monster. I've known you for years, and… well, fancied you for quite a while. So I guess this just makes you seem… even more dangerous and impressive." Greg could feel himself blushing as he made this confession. He kept his eyes averted.

"Gregory." Mycroft's voice was a growl, and the next second Greg found himself being pushed back against the arm of the sofa with Mycroft climbing onto his lap. He slid a hand into Greg's hair and brought their lips together in a slow, heated kiss.

Greg ran his hands up and down Mycroft's back, humming into his mouth. The kiss was languid and tender, and sent a slow wave of heat rolling though Greg. He let his head fall back against the arm of the sofa and surrendered control to Mycroft, reveling in the sensation of his lips and tongue and teeth, letting himself drift in the pure bliss of it.

They kissed, and went on kissing for an unheeded amount of time, until a sudden knock at the door jerked them from their daze. Greg blinked as Mycroft pulled back, momentarily disoriented before he remembered that he had ordered take-away. Mycroft looked similarly confused, but slid off Greg's lap and onto the sofa.

Greg took a moment to collect himself as he answered the door and paid for the meal. It would not do to just go back and jump the man… vampire… whatever. Greg was quite hungry, for one thing, and he still had some questions he wanted answered. So he straightened his pajama bottoms and willed down his erection as he carried the paper bag of food back into the living room, with a brief stopover in the kitchen to collect forks and plates. They would eat and talk, and hopefully get a few more things figured out. Then he could jump him.

Mycroft was waiting on the sofa, looking slightly disheveled and entirely gorgeous with his rumpled suit and tousled hair, and Greg had to close his eyes for a moment to strengthen his resolve.

"Best Thai food in the city," Greg announced as he set the bag on the table and started pulling out cartons. Mycroft watched him, looking mildly horrified as Greg started flipping lids and scooping food onto his plate.

"Gregory, don't you have a perfectly serviceable dining table right over there?"

Greg grinned. "Yeah, but I like to eat in here. More comfortable." He nudged a plate and a carton of pad Thai in Mycroft's direction and grinned wider as Mycroft reluctantly forked out some noodles.

"So," Greg started, once he had swallowed a few bites of food to take the edge off, "vampires can become invisible and erase memories, huh? That's funny, I didn't find anything about that when I was researching vampires. Turning into bats and fog, yes; mind control, yes; but no invisibility or memory stuff."

"Not all of us have the same Talents. They differ between individuals. Clouding, which is what we call the memory altering Talent, is in fact extremely rare. Also, I've never heard of anyone with the ability to turn into an animal or a weather feature."

"Hmm," Greg swallowed another bite of food, his lip curling in a half-smirk. "I notice you didn't mention the mind control."

"Yes, well." Mycroft looked away and scratched his chin. Greg's smirk bloomed into a full grin. Uncomfortable Mycroft was too cute. And besides, Greg had already worked this one out for himself.

"Oh, come on. You might as well tell me now."

"I do in fact possess a Talent that allows me to encourage huma- that is, people, to act in the manner that I desire, although it is quite limited."

Mycroft's slip drove home to Greg quite suddenly that he was sitting here on his sofa eating cheap Thai food and chatting about magic powers with a being that was not technically human, that could snap him in half with barely an effort. The shiver that passed down his spine was a combination of heat and fear that left him suddenly breathless, his heart pounding.

Mycroft jerked his head up to look at him sharply, brow furrowed, and Greg realized that Mycroft could hear the increase in his heart rate. He licked his lips, and Mycroft mimicked the motion. He shivered again.

"It's your eyes, right? When they go all black? That's how you control people."

"I…" Mycroft's eyes widened slightly, which Greg knew to be the equivalent of gasping in shock for most people. "Yes, that's correct. I must make direct eye contact in order to use either of the two of my Talents that operate directly on the brain. It is, in fact, quite limiting."

Greg snorted. "Yeah, you can only erase memories and make people do what you want when you look them in the eye. That's a shame."

Mycroft gave a grimace that could possibly be considered a smile, if Greg was generous.

"You did it to me."

Mycroft sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes jumping to meet Greg's, expression suddenly tight. Greg kept his face deliberately smooth and even. This he had not worked out until just now, the words falling out of his mouth as the realization struck him. He remembered Mycroft whispering it into his ear as they humped against the wall. "I've tasted your blood," he had said.

Greg knew he should be furious, horrified, but again the emotions would not come. Because despite the violation implied in the act, here he sat, whole and safe and relatively unharmed. And although he was covered in injuries both minor and significant when he arrived at the hospital, the doctor had never mentioned anything about puncture wounds.

"Gregory…" Mycroft started, and then trailed off, apparently at a loss for words. He looked terrified, in his particular Mycroft way: tiny furrow to his brow, slightly widened eyes, and jaw tight. As Greg watched, he swallowed visibly and dropped his gaze. "It is true, I did. But please, please, Gregory, understand that I did not intend to. The first time was an accident, triggered by my fear and disorientation, and I stopped as soon as I realized I was doing it. The second time I was out of my head with the pain from the silver, and you were literally bleeding at my feet. I had no control over myself, none. I never meant… I would never do that to you. Not deliberately."

Mycroft kept his hands in his lap and his eyes down as he spoke, clearly expecting Greg to react with rage and fear, but Greg just felt… blank. He watched Mycroft, silent, while he tried to process everything he had just heard.

Twice? It had happened twice? He had no trouble placing the second incident; that had obviously occurred when Hairy Knuckles had shoved him bleeding back into the cell. Even now he retained no memory of what had happened between when he was pushed through the door and when Sherlock showed up. He had been attributing it to shock and blood loss, but clearly there more to it. But when was the first time?

"When was the first time?" Greg asked, voice flat.

"It was after they put the lights out that first night." Mycroft looked up at him again, expression pleading. "I have… other senses, usually. I can gather additional information about the environment using my mental energy, to supplement what I can see and hear. But running water and silver both inhibit those senses. The water, in particular, warps what I can sense until it is meaningless confusion, like trying to read newsprint through a glass prism. And then, when the lights went out as well… I have not been so blind in hundreds of years."

"It was when I used my mobile for light," Greg said suddenly, realization striking all at once. "My 'panic attack.' That's why I didn't feel comfortable sleeping within reach of you afterwards."

"Yes. You have good instincts."

Greg blinked. "I do, don't I?" He searched inside himself, but still found no anger, no fear. Mycroft had had him at his mercy repeatedly throughout their time in that cell, and had not taken advantage of it until he was too far gone from pain to control himself, and even then only when Greg had showed up dripping with blood. He smiled a soft, gentle smile and reached out, resting his hand on Mycroft's knee.

"Gregory?"

"It's okay, Mycroft. I appreciate you being honest with me about this, and it's okay. I believe you when you say it was out of your control. We can blame it on Andrei and the lot."

"Gregory…," Mycroft clutched at Greg's hand and squeezed almost hard enough to be painful. "I don't know how you can be so understanding about this, but I am more grateful than I can express."

"Well, like you said, I have good instincts." Greg was relieved to see a little smile appear on Mycroft's lips. "And Andrei's group certainly seemed to know what they were doing, didn't they? In terms of handling a vampire, I mean."

"Yes."

"Did you ever figure out what they were after? I assume your people managed to capture a few of them while they were rescuing us, right?"

"Indeed."

Greg waited. "And?"

"Initially, I assumed the motivation for the kidnapping was political. Or possibly intended to acquire certain… information… that I had on my person. The micro USB device, you remember?"

"I'm sorry, the what?" Greg carefully schooled his face into an expression of polite inquiry. He was not born yesterday, and knew a test when he heard one. "I have no idea what you mean."

Mycroft watched him for a moment, one eyebrow raised, and then smiled. "Well then, I shall say no more about it except that at the time of the kidnapping I had in my possession a device that some unscrupulous people might have sought to gain for themselves."

"So that's what they were after?"

"In fact, no. Think about it Gregory. They knew to keep me underground, bound in silver chains, in a room containing running water and sealed with a silver-plated door. How could they have known to do such things unless they knew what I was right from the start?"

"I don't… wait. Are you saying they captured you _because_ you're a vampire? They were targeting vampires specifically?"

"Correct. We were captured by a militant group dedicated to the destruction of those such as myself. The group is based out of Romania, and call themselves "Vanatori". They learned of my… condition, and came for me. I believe you were only taken because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Or possibly they thought a human would be easier to interrogate."

"Likely that as well."

"Jesus, Mycroft, that's bizarre." Greg considered Mycroft's words for a moment. "It makes the questions Andrei was asking make a lot more sense. Oh yeah, I wanted to ask. He accused me of being something. 'Fascinat', I think was the word. I tried to look it up but I couldn't find anything about it on the internet. According to Google Translate, it just means 'glamorous' in Romanian. Any idea what he meant?"

"Yes. He was accusing you of being compelled to help me. In the past, those of us with the ability would take over human minds and create armies of loyal, mindless drones to serve as helpers and protect us from other humans."

"Well shit."

"Yes."

"That's… that's bloody insulting, is what it is."

"What?" Mycroft look baffled.

"I thought I made a pretty good show of not being a mindless drone when they were interrogating me, thank you very much."

"I see." Mycroft's mouth quirked as if he was trying to hold back a smile. "Well, no doubt you did. I'm sure they were just too blinded by their fanaticism to recognize it. Also, I have to believe that they did not think a human would willingly help someone like me."

"Well they're wrong there. I would always help you, human or not."

Mycroft swallowed and did not speak. Greg, embarrassed by his own candor, suddenly remembered the food they were eating. He quickly shoveled a few forkfuls of lukewarm yellow curry into his mouth. Mycroft followed suit, taking careful and deliberate bites. He managed to avoid getting sauce on his chin, which Greg found impressive.

"You know, I'm surprised they managed to catch you at all," Greg said after a few minutes of silent eating, waving his fork in the air to punctuate his statement. "You have all your government security, and then the advantage of your special vampire senses. I imagine you're hard to sneak up on."

"Yes." Mycroft looked suddenly grim. "That is usually the case. However, in this instance, they had an advantage."

"Mph?" Greg made an interrogative noise through a mouthful of food.

"A 'man on the inside', I believe is the term. My assistant, Benjamin. After we went missing, Sherlock discovered that he had been communicating with the Vanatori and had deliberately set me up. He disabled most of my security that evening. The Vanatori of course had some ideas how to conceal themselves from my awareness as well, being dedicated vampire hunters."

"Oh crap, Mycroft!" Greg dropped his fork onto his plate with a clatter. "Your assistant? That's… that's awful."

"Yes. Finding a suitable replacement has been quite a challenge, but I do believe that the young lady I just hired will fill the position admirably."

"What? No, I meant, because of the betrayal."

"Oh. I see." Mycroft rubbed his chin again and avoided Greg's eyes. "Well. He has received a fitting punishment."

"Good." Greg could see that the subject made Mycroft uncomfortable, but he had to ask. Thinking about someone whom Mycroft had trusted and depended upon betraying him like that made Greg furious, and he needed to know that it could not happen again. "What did you do to him?"

Mycroft looked up suddenly at the heat in Greg's tone. "I was quite severely wounded from prolonged contact with the silver by the time Sherlock and the others found us. I was suffering extreme pain and was entirely delirious. I could not have been safely released from my bonds in such a state, or I would have almost certainly injured many of those that came to help us." Mycroft paused and glanced at Greg briefly before continuing. Greg could not read his expression. "There is only one thing that will restore a creature such as myself under those conditions."

Greg licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. "Blood."

"Yes."

"The man... that man Sherlock was dragging around. I heard him, right before I passed out. I heard him screaming."

"Yes." Mycroft looked directly into Greg's eyes, his expression open and unguarded. "That was Benjamin. Sherlock discovered his role in the kidnapping and, after interrogating him, chose to bring him along. He realized that I could only have been held for so long given extreme measures, and rightly deduced that I would need a large amount of blood very quickly once I was found. He felt, and I agree, that providing me with that blood would be a fitting consequence for Benjamin's disloyalty."

"Christ," Greg breathed, flopping back against the sofa and breaking eye contact with Mycroft. He did not know what to feel about that revelation.

His initial knee-jerk reaction was horror, that any person should be put through that, fed to a creature like the one Mycroft had become by the end of their time as prisoners. On the other hand, though, Benjamin was largely responsible for Mycroft being in that state in the first place, and had actively sought to cause him harm. Have him killed, in fact, and probably in some kind of ritualistic and terrible way, after a prolonged session of torture via silver.

"Did he die?" Greg asked, still not looking at Mycroft.

"I regret to admit that he did," Mycroft responded after a pause. "If I had been in my right mind I would not have killed him. Even that severely damaged, I did not require so much blood that he could not have survived, and I truly do abhor killing. I would have preferred to take what I needed, and then Cloud his memory, assign him to an awful post in some remote frozen wasteland, and ensure that he never again received a promotion. Unfortunately, I did not have the awareness or self-control to manage it."

Greg nodded, although he was not sure to what. The thought of it turned his stomach, but he could not find fault with Mycroft either. Benjamin deserved a harsh punishment for his betrayal, and Mycroft was in an impossible situation. Logically, he saw the appropriateness of using Benjamin to provide the blood that Mycroft needed; it had a certain amount of poetic justice to it. So he forced his qualms aside and turned back to Mycroft.

"Okay, I can't say I like it, but I think I understand."

Mycroft let out a slow breath, reaching over to gently grasp Greg's hand. "Your kindness and generosity of spirit continue to astound me, Gregory. Thank you."

Greg shrugged and fell quiet, searching his mind for a change of subject. After a silent moment, he found one.

"So, Sherlock is a vampire too then."

"What?" Mycroft looked startled, although Greg could not tell whether it was because of the sudden change of topic or the comment itself.

"Sherlock. He's a vampire too."

"I never said…"

"Mycroft, come on. Your explanation made it pretty clear, but even if you hadn't said anything I would have figured it out. I watched him hold a terrified man in place with one hand while lifting me off the ground with the other. I had sort of forgotten it with all the other stuff, but that was clearly not the kind of thing a regular person could do."

"You're right. I'm sorry, Gregory. I've been keeping secrets for so long that I have a hard time discussing some things. And Sherlock's secrets are not mine to tell."

Greg smiled. "Well, if it makes you feel better, I figured this one out on my own, okay?" Mycroft nodded. "I do have one question though," Greg continued. "Are you guys really brothers?"

"In a manner of speaking. We were both turned by the same individual, which makes us… equivalent to siblings, according to our traditions. We are not biologically related, and in fact I am nearly one hundred years older than he is."

Greg's mouth fell open. Mycroft smirked.

"God, I hadn't even considered how old you might be. That's… that's kind of crazy."

"I'm sure it seems so, yes."

"How old are you, exactly? If you don't mind telling me."

"Not at all. I am just shy of my three hundredth birthday."

"Jesus." Greg sat back, letting his gaze drift aimlessly around the room as he considered Mycroft's words. Hundreds of years of living; all that knowledge, all that experience. The things Mycroft must have seen, must have _done_ in all that time. "That's bloody amazing."

Mycroft shrugged.

"No, seriously." Greg hesitated, unable to bring himself to meet Mycroft's eyes as the next thought occurred to him. "I can't imagine what someone as incredible as you sees in an old, greying, broken-down copper, but I'm glad for it."

"Oh, Gregory." Mycroft squeezed Greg's hand and tugged gently, causing Greg to raise his eyes to meet Mycroft's gaze. "You are not old; compared to me, you are quite young indeed. Your hair is a striking shade of silver which admirably suits your distinguished features. And you have never been broken down. Even under extreme stress, such as when you've been kidnapped or when you have to interact with Sherlock for longer than a few minutes, your resilience and optimism shine through and buoy the spirits of everyone around you, myself included. You are a charming, handsome, intelligent man and I find you more fascinating than anyone else I have ever known. I am only grateful that you are willing to spend time with me at all, now that you know my secret."

Mycroft's tone rang with sincerity, and Greg swallowed against the lump forming in his throat. He held on tight to Mycroft's hand with both of his and gazed back at him, unable to look away from the genuine emotion shining in his eyes. Greg knew he must look ridiculous, gaping at Mycroft like a fish, but he could not help it. Nearly three hundred years of living, and Mycroft found _him_ to be so very fascinating? He had no idea what he had done to deserve it, but now that he had this in his life he was damned if he was going to let it go.

"Mycroft, will you… would you like to stay the night?"

"More than I can express," Mycroft said with a soft smile. He released Greg's hand and looked down, pulling a slim mobile from a hidden pocket inside his jacket. "Just give me a moment to make certain arrangements, and my evening will be yours."

While Mycroft made his call, voice muffled as he spoke rapidly into the mobile, Greg cleaned off the coffee table, shoving take-away boxes haphazardly into his refrigerator and dropping dirty dishes in a pile in the sink. He finished and walked back out into the living room just as Mycroft was slipping his phone back into his pocket.

Greg stopped just inside the room, feeling suddenly shy and hesitant. Mycroft turned his head, saw him standing there, and gave a little smile. He stood and moved across the room until he was standing just in front of Greg.

Silently, Mycroft held out one hand, palm upwards. Greg looked at it for a moment and then placed his own hand on top of Mycroft's outstretched palm, glancing back up just in time to see Mycroft's smile soften into a tender expression. Then Mycroft clasped Greg's hand and tugged him forward into an embrace, bringing his other hand around and threading it through Greg's scruffy hair.

Their lips met and Greg's eyes fell closed as he lost himself in the sensation. This kiss was gentle and tender, heavy with undefined emotions, and Greg could feel warmth filling him up until he was bursting with it. Prickles of heat tickled the back of his eyes, and he realized with shock that he was on the verge of tearing up from the overwhelming emotions.

Greg squeezed his eyes tight and tilted his head, parting his lips and deepening the kiss. Mycroft's tongue met his and a flare of heat jolted him, derailing his thoughts completely. He clutched at Mycroft's jacket with both hands and pulled himself against that long, firm body.

Mycroft let out a quiet, desperate little sound and the hand in Greg's hair turned suddenly harsh, scratching his scalp and pulling his hair. He moaned, clenching Mycroft's jacket in his fists and arching against him. Mycroft's answering moan made him shudder and he shoved at Mycroft's jacket, suddenly desperate to feel his skin.

Fumbling and grasping at each other's clothes, they stumbled toward the sofa, the kiss never breaking for longer than a second. Greg's knee knocked against the coffee table and he yelped, the sound immediately swallowed up by Mycroft's mouth on his. Then Greg dragged his hands up Mycroft's stomach and onto his chest, reveling in the sensual pleasure of the soft material of his shirt beneath his palms. He paused, smiled wickedly into the kiss, and shoved Mycroft back.

It was Mycroft's turn to yelp, one arm flailing as he staggered backward and landed sloppily on the sofa. He looked so different, shirt rucked up and hair sticking out in spikes, limbs sprawled out wide, undisguised expression of surprise on his face, that Greg could not help himself; he giggled.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and then, to Greg's complete shock and delight, a smile lit his face and he let out an adorably high-pitched, almost child-like giggle. This, of course, only made Greg laugh harder.

Regaining his composure first, Mycroft reached out and wrapped a hand around Greg's thigh, pulling him sharply forward. Greg's laughter was abruptly cut off as he found himself pitching forward onto Mycroft's lap. He grabbed at Mycroft's shoulders to stabilize himself and felt those strong, narrow hands settle on his hips as he came to rest straddling Mycroft's legs.

Greg froze, breathless, looking down into Mycroft's eyes. Wide and blue, they sparkled with joy and mirth, and Greg found himself spellbound. This, this playful pleasure and innocent delight, was something he had never expected to find in his life, and especially not with Mycroft Holmes. Certainly not with the version of Mycroft he had known before he discovered his secret.

Greg felt it again, a sensation of effervescent warmth filling his chest, making him tingle. He let the feeling push a new, gentle smile onto his face as he brought one hand up and softly caressed Mycroft's cheek with one thumb.

Beneath him, Mycroft was perfectly still, gazing back with an expression of rapt adoration. When Greg's hand touched his face his eyes fell shut and his lips parted as he let out a little puff of air, tilting his head into the stroke. Greg watched, captivated for another moment, and then leaned forward and brought their lips together again. Instantly, the heat Greg had been feeling was reignited, and he moaned, parting his lips and deepening the kiss.

Remembering his earlier mission to feel Mycroft's skin, he brought his fingers up and clumsily unbuttoned Mycroft's waistcoat and shirt, unable to concentrate fully on the tiny buttons through the sensation of Mycroft's tongue caressing his and fingers stroking gently along his back. Finally, after an interminable time, he managed to open them both and push them back off of Mycroft's shoulders. Mycroft helpfully leaned forward to allow Greg to push the clothing all the way off.

Beneath them, he was wearing a vest.

"Oh bloody hell!" Greg said, breaking the kiss to glare accusingly at yet another layer of clothing keeping him from his prize. Mycroft snorted and arched an eyebrow.

With a growl of impatience, Greg grabbed the bottom hem of the vest and yanked it upward, tearing it off of Mycroft as fast as he could manage. And then, finally, his prize was revealed.

Greg ran his hands down Mycroft's chest, smooth and firm and dusted with freckles. Again he noticed that Mycroft had a bit of a tummy when sitting in this position, and the sight of it made him feel so unbearably fond that he had to blink hard to dispel the prickling sensation in his eyes. Mycroft's skin was soft beneath his palms and he took a moment to simply enjoy the feel of it, caressing gently, before turning his attention more deliberately to making Mycroft gasp.

Leaning forward, Greg dragged his tongue along the column of Mycroft's throat, nipping and sucking gently. He scraped his fingernails down Mycroft's chest, moving to pinch one nipple in his fingers as he bit down on the skin between his teeth and sucked, and was rewarded with a sharp hitch of indrawn breath. He rolled the nipple between his fingers, pinching softly as he moved around to work the other side of Mycroft's neck, and Mycroft gasped again before letting out a long, low moan, shuddering beneath him.

Greg smiled against Mycroft's throat and pinched again, harder. He felt Mycroft's hands come up under his t-shirt and stroke up his back with firm pressure. Then Mycroft hooked his fingers and scratched down with sudden, shocking intensity, making Greg hiss, fingers tightening convulsively on Mycroft's nipple. Lines of fire burned pleasure down his back and Greg broke off his explorations of Mycroft's throat to throw his head back and gasp.

"Shirt off," Mycroft growled, voice low and raspy and almost unfamiliar. Greg immediately dropped his hands to the hem of his shirt and pulled it swiftly up over his head, throwing it to the side without turning. Instead he looked down at Mycroft, and the sight that greeted him stopped him cold.

Mycroft was looking up at him, pupils hugely dilated in his blue eyes, a light pink blush staining his cheeks. He was panting, his shoulders visibly rising and falling with his rapid breaths, and his hair was messy. But what Greg noticed, all he could see, were the tips of two long, sharp fangs peeking out from between Mycroft's parted lips.

An instant wave of intense arousal flooded through him, and Greg swallowed. Mycroft's nostrils flared for a moment and his eyes widened. Then his mouth curved in a devious smile, and he slowly licked his lips, drawing his upper lip back and letting Greg watch as his fangs scraped and caught on his tongue. Greg whimpered.

Slowly, gently, Mycroft raised one hand and rested it on the back of Greg's head, letting the tips of his fingers drag through the short hair there. His other hand he rested firmly on the small of Greg's back, just above his tailbone. As Greg watched, mesmerized, Mycroft tilted his face up and bit his lower lip, his fangs visibly dimpling the soft pink flesh.

Greg leaned forward, feeling almost like he was moving through molasses, and brought his mouth down to hover just above Mycroft's. This close, his eyes were huge pools of black ringed with blue, deep and endless and beautiful. Greg held his gaze and, very slowly, extended his tongue.

The tip of his tongue touched the corner of Mycroft's mouth and Greg's eyes fluttered shut, out of his control. He gently licked along Mycroft's soft lips until he felt it, the sharp point of one fang extending beneath the plump flesh. Involuntarily he groaned, tracing the shape of it with his tongue and licking at the pointed tip.

Mycroft's mouth opened with a soft gasp, and Greg took advantage of the space to thrust his tongue inside, still keeping their lips separated. He lapped at Mycroft's mouth, pushing his tongue along the teeth, dragging it back and forth across Mycroft's fangs, deliberately scratching himself across the sharp points. The hand holding the back of his head squeezed, nails dragging through his short hair, and Greg groaned again. Then Mycroft's tongue met his.

They licked at each other almost frantically, still not quite kissing; tongues sliding and slipping and scraping between Mycroft's fangs, breath panting hot in the space between their mouths. The desperate lust in the action sent a sharp frisson of arousal shuddering through Greg, and he moaned. Mycroft let out an answering sound, nearly a sob, and dropped both his hands to Greg's hips, pulling the other man abruptly flush against his groin.

The sudden contact of his erection against the hard flesh of Mycroft's sent a bolt of pleasure slamming through Greg, and he tore his mouth away to throw his head back and gasp, involuntarily thrusting against the pressure. Mycroft's hands rose to his shoulders and pulled, and he collapsed forward onto Mycroft's chest, his head tipping forward over one firm shoulder as he continued to buck on Mycroft's lap.

Wet heat trailed along the exposed arch of his neck and Greg shuddered. Mycroft kissed along the length of his throat, pausing to suck harshly at the soft pale flesh, his hands relentlessly running up and down Greg's body. Greg moaned and trembled on top of him, feeling suddenly and intensely overwhelmed by pleasure. And then Mycroft let his fangs scrape against the skin of Greg's throat.

Greg whimpered as hot sparks of lust cascaded through him. He writhed on Mycroft's lap, grinding down on the erection beneath him. The friction of his pajama bottoms against his cock, the way he slid smoothly against the fabric of Mycroft's suit trousers; it was just on the right side of painful, and Greg bucked his hips faster, pushed down harder, chasing the sensation.

Mycroft moaned against his skin and dropped his hands to Greg's hips again, pulling him down over and over, pressing his own erection hard against Greg's. He nipped Greg's flesh with his fangs, the sharp sting making him shudder.

Greg arched his neck further, mindlessly pressing into Mycroft's teeth. The feeling abruptly lessened, and Greg whimpered again, this time in disappointment. He stretched up and pushed his throat against Mycroft's mouth, letting out a moan when he felt the press of those fangs against his flesh again. His hips bucked involuntarily and there was a sudden cold sensation against the hot skin of his neck as Mycroft sucked in a gasp.

Greg grabbed Mycroft's head with both hands, keeping his mouth in place as he leaned back and straightened up. Braced on his knees, he started rolling his cock against Mycroft's, riding him through their clothes. Mycroft's hands clenched on his hips and he bit harder, sucking in a mouthful of Greg's skin and letting his fangs squeeze to the point of pain.

Greg moaned again, the twin sensations on his cock and throat pulling him fast to the peak of his pleasure. He felt heat pooling in his groin, a wave of tingling pleasure rolling up his spine, and he jerked Mycroft's head harshly against his neck.

And then suddenly Mycroft's head was torn from his grip and strong, implacable hands were pushing him backwards, up off of Mycroft's groin to balance on his knees. Greg nearly sobbed, hips still bucking, hands grasping uselessly at the empty space in front of his neck.

"Gregory…" Mycroft was panting, and his voice sounded absolutely wrecked. "Gregory, stop."

"Oh God, please," Greg answered, equally breathless, opening his eyes to look at Mycroft.

Mycroft looked as wrecked as he sounded. His hair was a mess, standing up in spikes where Greg's sweaty hands had gripped him. His mouth was swollen, fangs still peeking out in the open space between his lips. But his eyes… his eyes were so filled with emotion, sadness and desire and fear, that the sight of them slapped across Greg's consciousness like a wet rag, immediately dampening his lust.

"Mycroft, what? What's wrong?"

"Gregory, I… I can't."

"What? You can't what?" Greg was almost panicking now, frantic to know what he had done wrong to put that look on Mycroft's face. Mycroft paused, eyes searching Greg's face as he drew several deep breaths. Finally, he dropped his eyes and opened his mouth to answer.

"My self-control is quite strong. Under ordinary circumstances, I can resist the call of my nature and behave in a way that is appropriate no matter then temptation. But right now, Gregory, when you are here in my arms, making those noises and pressing my mouth to your throat, I am finding it extremely challenging."

Greg's brow furrowed. "What are you saying?"

"I just need to take a moment to regain my control. I'm sorry."

"Wait." A sudden shiver passed down Greg's spine as he realized what Mycroft was talking about, and he felt a throb of heat in his groin. "Are you saying you want to… bite me?"

Mycroft gave a wry smile. "'Want' is a bit of an understatement. I am finding it quite difficult to fight the urge. But Gregory, I will control myself. You never have to be afraid that I will hurt you."

"You…" Greg breathed out, all the air knocked out of him by the thought. Somehow, through this whole thing, it had not seriously occurred to Greg that a now-healthy Mycroft would want to bite him, drink his blood. That he himself might desire it. But now that the idea was in his mind, Greg could not think of anything he wanted more. God, just the very thought…. He shuddered, and his cock jumped in his pajama bottoms.

"I am so sorry, Gregory," Mycroft said, looking at him with obvious concern. "If you would like me to go, I will."

"No!" Mycroft flinched a bit at the sudden volume of Greg's protest, and Greg swallowed. "No," he said again, softer. He brought one hand to Mycroft's shoulder and pulled himself forward, resting his weight more fully over Mycroft's legs and looked directly into Mycroft's eyes, willing him to see the naked desire painted there.

"Gregory?"

"Mycroft, I…" Greg paused, swallowed. "I want you to do it."

Mycroft's pupils expanded visibly. "What?"

"I want you to bite me. To drink my blood." Just saying it out loud sent another tremor of anticipation and pleasure through Greg. His cock pulsed, full and aching.

"Gregory, you don't understand." But he sounded breathless, and his fingers twitched where they rested against Greg's chest.

Greg smiled. "Probably not. But I want it anyway. You don't have to take too much blood, right? Not enough to kill me, at least."

"No, it doesn't have to be that much. But Gregory, I…." It was Mycroft's turn to swallow. "I am afraid that, once I start, I won't be able to stop."

"Mycroft, after everything we've been through together, I trust you not to hurt me. If you didn't do it before, you certainly won't now."

"You misunderstand; I don't mean all at once. I mean that, once you have let me taste you, I will need to do it again, and again, and I will not be able to let you go."

"Oh. Oh God." Mycroft's words sent another wave of heat through Greg, and he could feel his balls tightening and drawing up as he pictured it, pictured Mycroft taking him, biting him, fucking him over and over. He lifted his chin. "Mycroft, please."

Mycroft's voice suddenly sounded deeper, more predatory. "Gregory, I have tasted your blood once already." Greg's eyes fluttered shut, and he tipped his head back further. "It was the best, the most delicious thing I have ever tasted. I am desperate, _desperate,_ Gregory, to have it again." Mycroft's hands slid down Greg's chest and around to his hips, drawing him forward slowly until he was flush against Mycroft's groin. He whimpered. "I want it so much." Mycroft's breath ghosted across Greg's neck, making his hips twitch. "I could easily see myself becoming addicted to it, to you. To the feeling of your body in my arms, to the sound of your moans, to the taste of your blood."

"Oh fuck," Greg gasped, stretching his head back and leaning forward toward the sinful purr of that voice.

"Is that something you want, Gregory? Do you want me to drink from you? Do you want me addicted to you?" Greg felt Mycroft's tongue trail up his throat.

"Yes, God yes, Mycroft please. Do it."

"Then look at me."

Greg sucked in a breath at the command in that voice and opened his eyes, dropping his chin and leaning back until he could look at Mycroft's face. The naked lust he saw reflected there took his breath away.

"Ask me."

Greg felt his eyes widen and his cock got suddenly, impossibly harder. "Mycroft, please, drink my blood. I want you to."

Mycroft let out a sound almost like a growl. He brought his arms up under Greg's and curled them behind him to clutch his shoulders, using the grip to pull Greg firmly down against his erection and tip him forward. Greg rolled his cock against the hard bulge beneath him and lifted his chin, baring his throat.

Greg squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered when he felt the tips of Mycroft's fangs trailing along the column of his throat.

"Last chance, Gregory," Mycroft murmured, lips brushing against Greg's skin as he spoke. "If I do this, you are mine."

Greg drew a shuddery breath and tried to pull himself together enough to respond. "I'm already yours."

Mycroft growled again and thrust his hips up while pulling Greg down, grinding into Greg's erection. Greg gasped and moaned at the onslaught, pleasure arcing through him.

And then Mycroft bit.

Pain, sudden and sharp and bright, burst through him, and Greg cried out. He could feel Mycroft's fangs piercing his skin, Mycroft's mouth warm and wet against the wound, Mycroft's arms holding him tightly, Mycroft's cock still thrusting and pulsing against his through their clothes. The conflicting signals of pain and pleasure clashed and warped inside him, drowning him in red hot bliss, and he writhed helplessly, caught in the cage of Mycroft's arms and impaled on his teeth.

Mycroft started sucking against the puncture wounds, and a crashing wave of euphoria broke over Greg, pleasure unlike anything he had ever felt before. He arched his neck back, giving himself completely to the incredible sensations, allowing Mycroft to use him as he wished. He could feel himself talking, babbling nonsense, but he could not hear it over the roaring in his ears.

Lost, overcome with pleasure, completely subsumed by sensation, Greg had no awareness of how long it continued. He could only feel and buck and moan as he was carried helplessly on the rush of ecstasy. Dimly through the haze he could sense his body, tightening and drawing up, muscles beginning to clench and convulse.

Then his orgasm struck him, sudden and shocking and inevitable, the stab of pleasure pushing him so high that it nearly hurt. He felt himself cry out and jerked his head back involuntarily, and felt a sharp ripping pain in his neck. The feeling bloomed, mingled with intense pleasure, and for a moment he balanced perfectly on the knife edge between pleasure and pain, engulfed by rapture.

He blacked out.

When Greg woke, he was still resting on Mycroft's lap, collapsed forward over his chest. Mycroft's hands were trailing softly up and down his back and he could hear him murmuring something, but not in English. He felt wrung out, exhausted, limp, but also joyful and sated. He shifted, drawing a deep breath, and winced when he felt the cooling sticky sensation in his pants.

He started to sit up and was surprised at the effort it took. Mycroft fell silent and his hands tightened on Greg's back for a moment, as if trying to stop his movement. As Greg straightened, he felt another sticky tug, this time on the skin of his neck. The feeling made him smile.

When he managed to pull himself into an upright position, he looked down at Mycroft below him. Mycroft looked incredible, his cheeks pinked with a rosy blush, his hair wild. A trail of dried blood ran down his chin.

_Mine,_ Greg thought, and shivered just a bit. He was not sure if he was thinking about the blood or Mycroft himself, but then decided it did not matter. It was true either way.

"Hey," Greg said softly, when Mycroft continued to gaze at him silently.

"Mmm." Mycroft's expression was… somber. Greg felt a bit of creeping worry sneaking up on his joy.

"You okay?"

Mycroft did not respond, just dropped his eyes to look at Greg's throat. Greg brought a hand up and touched the spot, which was very sore. When he pulled his hand back, his fingertips were wet and tacky with drying blood.

"Oh, ew. I think I need a shower."

"Gregory…" Mycroft was still staring at his neck.

Greg brought a hand to Mycroft's face and tilted his head up until Mycroft met his gaze. He smiled, gently and deliberately. "Hey. What?"

"I hurt you." Mycroft reached up as if he were going to touch Greg's neck, but his hand stopped before he made contact and dropped to his lap.

"Yeah, a little."

"I'm so sorry, Gregory."

"Mycroft," Greg spoke softly, carefully, "it's okay." Mycroft looked as if he wanted to argue, but Greg did not give him the chance. "I get worse at work all the time. Besides, I'm pretty sure this was my fault. I felt it happen when I jerked my head back."

"I should have been paying better attention, but I was so lost in my own pleasure. Gregory, I… that is, if you are still willing to allow me this privilege, I swear that I will not let it happen again."

"Well, it's probably good if this doesn't happen every time, because I'm pretty sure it's going to leave one hell of a mark. But," Greg deliberately let his voice deepen to a low purr, "it would be nice if it happened sometimes."

Mycroft's eyes widened. "Gregory?"

"Christ, Mycroft, couldn't you tell how much I liked it? I've never felt anything like that in my life. I'd do it every day if I thought I could handle it. Probably not, though. But, I still want to do it again as often as possible."

"Really?" Mycroft's expression was a combination of heated and hopeful that made Greg feel warm inside.

"God yes." Greg leaned forward and slowly, gently brought his lips to Mycroft's. The kiss was slow and tender, all reaffirmation and reassurance. Mycroft's hands resumed caressing Greg's back, and Greg stroked Mycroft's cheek gently with his thumb.

When they separated, Greg could taste his own blood on his lips. He grinned.

"Now, about that shower."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

In the end, they showered separately. Greg sent Mycroft in first, while he puttered around the flat. He dug out his only other pair of pajama bottoms and another soft t-shirt for Mycroft to use, since his suit was officially too wrinkled and spattered with fluids to be worn even with Mycroft's magic suit-straightening skills. Greg decided to wear boxers and a t-shirt, since he was out of pajamas. Somehow, he doubted Mycroft would mind.

After his own shower, Greg took a moment to bandage the wounds on his neck, which were in fact not nearly as severe as the quantity of dried blood had made them look. He returned to the living room to find Mycroft, looking ridiculously adorable in a red t-shirt and blue pajama bottoms printed with the Chelsea FC crest, half-lying across the sofa. An episode of Doctor Who was playing on the telly, and Mycroft was holding a steaming mug in one hand. Another sat on the coffee table.

"Hey," Greg said, taking a seat at the other end of the sofa and pulling Mycroft's feet into his lap before picking up his mug. "Thanks for the tea."

"You're welcome, Gregory." Mycroft smiled at him, a soft happy smile. Greg smiled back, staring into Mycroft's eyes and feeling that sensation again, as if his whole self was being filled with warm effervescent bubbles. He gazed at Mycroft, just enjoying the feeling, until Mycroft cleared his throat and dropped his eyes, taking a sip of his tea.

Greg's smile widened, and then he too looked away.

"So, are you a Doctor Who fan then?" he asked after a moment, gesturing to the telly with his mug.

"Oh yes," Mycroft answered, voice fond. "I've been watching since the show first aired. I must admit, although I like this new generation quite a bit, I'm not sure whether I prefer it to the classic episodes."

"What? But they're so campy! The writing and special effects are so much better now."

After a good-natured argument about which era and Doctor were the best (Mycroft said Four, Greg held out for Ten) and another mug of tea, Greg found himself draped across Mycroft's chest, encased in his arms, watching the closing credits of the episode rolling up the screen. He sighed in contentment and turned his head, nosing against Mycroft's chest. Mycroft hummed softly in response.

"I'm really glad you came over tonight, Mycroft."

"As am I."

Greg smiled. "Maybe we should write a thank you note to the Vana-whatever for kidnapping us, since this is the outcome."

Mycroft snorted. "As it happens, I have people diligently searching for members of that particular group right now. I can have your message passed on when they are found."

Greg huffed against Mycroft's neck. "Great." He trailed a finger over the soft cotton of his t-shirt covering Mycroft's chest. "Seriously though, Mycroft, I am so incredibly grateful that I get to know you like this. All of you, I mean." He paused, swallowed. "You're not the only one who's running the risk of getting addicted. You're stuck with me now."

Mycroft's arms tightened around him, squeezing until the pressure was just short of too much, and he felt a kiss on the top of his head.

"Gregory, I cannot imagine anything better."

* * *

I really like frottage!

So that's it for this story, although I do intend to continue Mycroft and Greg's tale to some degree when I do the sequel to "At Dawn They Sleep". I think they have things left to explore. Sorry about the delay in getting this last chapter up, and I hope you enjoyed my little story!

And thanks again to Barawen for the excellent prompt!


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